


The Pirate, The Thief, and The Lady

by firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bernadette Von Altenburg, Cosette Collins, Delaney Benoit, Drama & Romance, F/M, Francis Collins, Pirates, Slow Burn, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 16:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12774615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart/pseuds/firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart
Summary: Cosette Collins has spent most of her adult life on the sea, but she always relishes coming home to be with the girls that were basically her sister's growing up. It was supposed to be a quick trip, according to her brother, who was the captain of their ship, but when Cosette finds herself tangled up with the King's Musketeers, her quick trip home, might become permanent in a very deadly way.





	1. Retour à la Maison

Cosette Collins was stretched out over the water with only her feet planted firmly on the side of the ship and a rope in her hand kept her steady. Her other hand was over her eyes, blocking out the sun as she watched the city she called home draw near.

Paris. It had almost a year since she had seen it, and while she loved the water and the ship, she couldn’t wait to set her feet down not only on stable ground, but on the cobbled streets of her home.

And she wanted to see her friends. For months she had been surrounded by men, smelling the stench of them, listening to their crude conversations, and having to deal with their lingering, longing gazes, which they would never act on, not as long as her brother was Captain. Bernadette and Delaney were the people she missed most when she was out to sea—she missed Delaney’s snarky barbs and Bernadette’s blind optimism. She missed having a conversation with someone who had known and understood her from birth, and who wasn’t a man. She just missed her friends.

The rope in her hand wobbled and Cosette looked up, not surprised to see Jean looking down at her. He was the quartermaster of the ship—and her brother, Francis’, best friend and partner, which meant not only did he have to make sure that the ship was well taken care of, but that she was as well, much to both their annoyance.

“This doesn’t seem dangerous at all,” he said, eyeing her boots, which were balancing on a slim ledge of wood. “Can’t imagine why people don’t do this all time.”

Cosette rolled her eyes and swung so she was facing the ship, gripping the rope with both hands now. She was barely a foot away from the deck, all she had to do was climb up the rope a little, and then back over the side. But Jean reached out a long arm instead, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close enough to the boat, so he could snake an arm around her body and yank her back up onto the ship.

“Get off me,” Cosette said as soon as she had her footing, before shoving him away from her and straightening out her clothes.

“You know, when your brother and I decided on this life, I always thought I’d die doing what I love—stealing things to make money, but I’m now convinced it’ll be because of you,” he said deadpanned, giving her one of his signature ‘you’re a giant pain in my ass’ looks. It was becoming less of a look these days and more of just his expression—seeing as they had taken on three new crew members in England after losing some men in a recent commandeering of a ship.

And Cosette did know about his self-declared death prophesy, because he told it to her all the time.

Jean was a tall, lanky man with sand colored hair and steely eyes. He was thin, but lean and his long reach gave him considerable advantages in sword fighting, something Cosette was sorely jealous of. While her limbs were long for her size, she was still considered very short and he often won in their sparing matches—often meaning most all of them.

“You’d rather die stealing imports than saving me? That really hurts, Jean, truly,” she said, holding a hand to heart and trying her best to look pained. His jaded expression told her she wasn’t doing a very good job.

“The Captain,” he said loudly, glaring at one of the crew members, who dropped a box—cracking the wood and causing contents to spill from it, “would like you to get properly dressed now, because this,” he motioned a hand down the length of her, “isn’t attractive.”

Cosette smiled cheekily at him—none of the men on the ship liked the way she dressed when they were at sea, especially not her brother. At first he didn’t allow her to wear pants with a proper belt for her gun and sword and a loose fitted cotton shirt, but after he had seen her try to fight properly in a dress, he had said nothing when she switched back to the men’s clothing. Until they docked, that is, a woman dressed as a man would call suspicion to any ship.

“I didn’t realize that my purpose in life was to be attractive, but thank you for clearing that up,” Cosette said, pushing by him and toward her room on this particular ship. A lot of pirates are sentimental about their ships, but her brother wasn’t one of them. He switched ships often, hoping that the constant change of boat would throw off the rather weak French navy. For the last six or so years it had worked.

“I’m assuming that I’ll need to tighten your corset for you,” he said dryly, obviously feeling that he had better things to do with his time—which she couldn’t really blame him for, he probably did have better things to do with his time.

“You could ask the Captain to do it, if you really wanted,” Cosette said, hearing the sound of their boots echoing on the old wood. She loved that sound. “Last time I think you were trying to break my ribs.”

“You should wash up first,” he said ignoring her. “You smell like fish.”

“Don’t we all, Jeanie, don’t we all.”


	2. Le Dame Blanche

She was practically bouncing out of her boots by the time they docked—Francis had been throwing unreadable glances her way, while Jean placed a heavy hand on her shoulder to stop her from moving. The men had a way of having whole conversation with looks, a language Cosette desperately wished she could learn, but had knew she never would. It was their own, and no one else’s.

“Where are you going?” Francis asked, just as she tried to exit the ship with the rest of the men—Jean’s hand held her in place. They exchanged looks again.

“Well, I sent a letter to Bernadette telling her I would be back around this time, right before we left England, and so I’m hoping she got it and that I will be meeting up with her and Delaney, probably at the tavern. I really need a drink…why?” Cosette asked, trying to shrug off Jean’s hand, but he didn’t move it.

“You sent a letter to Bernadette von Altenburg?” Francis asked, not looking at her, but examining the large crowd of people in front of the ship.

“Yes,” Cosette said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Letting her know the date of our arrival?” he asked, his voice barely audible. Francis did this a lot—kept asking questions, even though he obviously knew the answer or didn’t really care about it at all. 

“No, I gave her an approximate date of when I would be here,” Cosette said, finally managing to peel Jean’s large hand off of her shoulder. She was twenty-four, but her brother and Jean always managed to make her feel like a child. “I never mention you in any of my letters, you know that.”

They were sharing a look again.

“Bernadette is like a sister to us,” Cosette snapped, picking at the sides of her dress, which felt as though they were sewn into her skin. She had forgotten how painful corsets were. “She would never betray us.”

Francis nodded, but still looked pensive.

Irritation and fear crept up her throat—he would tell her if he knew something, wouldn’t he? If something was wrong?

“Alright,” he said finally with a nod. “I’ll have Jean find you tomorrow to make sure everything is fine, don’t leave Miracles. And if you do, come back to the ship. We’re staying here tonight. Remember, we’re only back for a week, two at most.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright mon père,” she muttered, start toward the side.

“Cosette,” he said, and she looked back at him. Her mother had already said he looked just like their father with his thick, curly, seal brown hair and brooding blue eyes under a heavy brow. “Be careful, please.”

“I’m always careful,” she said, picking up a rope—she thought of climbing down the side of the ship, but caught Jean’s eye. He shook his head no, and sighing she went down the ramp instead.

As soon as her feet hit the street, Cosette felt lighter. The crowd bustled around her—merchants called out to passersby, while women leaned in alleyways watching men exit ships. She saw one of the men from the ship—an Englishman named John, leaning against the wall, talking to a woman whose breasts were nearly touching her chin.

“Cosette!” a voice called.

Cosette stopped, almost tripping over her dress, cursing under her breath as she peered around. She was sure there were plenty of people in the city with her name, but she thought the voice sounded familiar—sounded like—

Bernadette was waving at her wildly. She was wearing an expensive pale blue dress with her hair done up in an elaborate braid. Cosette felt her hair self-consciously, it was loose, coarse, and wild—curled and tangled by the salty air that hung over the sea. And then it dawned on her that Bernadette was there, waiting for her and started through the crowd, pushing toward her friend.

She had almost reached her, when suddenly she ran into a man, who seemed to appeared out of nowhere, not giving her enough time to come to a full stop. She flung out a hand trying to steady herself and was met with handful of leather.

“My apologies, madam, I’m so sorry,” the young man said, trying to cover up his somewhat startled expression, while his eyes cut angrily toward someone in to right of him. Cosette didn’t follow his gaze, but instead around his shoulder where she could still see Bernadette’s dress. The man in front of her had one broad hand on her elbow and the other on her waist to steady her—he had swarthy skin and large, dark eyes and his face was framed by black, shaggy hair. 

Once she had her balance, Cosette dropped his coat and twisted out of his grasp.

“That’s alright,” she said, waving a hand at him and starting toward Bernadette again, before another man stepped in her way.

Annoyed, Cosette watched as he swept his hat off his head and bowed, smiling up at her with, what she was sure, was what he thought was his most dazzlingly of smiles. She was not dazzled, instead she felt her knife at her hip—tucked inconveniently under a layer of skirts.

“I would also like to apologize,” the man said, his mouth quirking up a little farther as he examined her unamused expression. Over his shoulder she could see Bernadette goggling at her—her sky colored eyes huge and her painted pink mouth slightly open. Cosette looked around a moment, confused. “It was my fault d’Artagnan was in your way. He had just said the rudest thing and so I shoved him, playfully, of course—however, unfortunately, or fortunately, whichever way you want to see it, he ran straight into you.”

“Yes, well, now unfortunately you’re in my way and I find that much more inconvenient than when he was,” Cosette said, hearing another man, who was off to the right a little ways, snort. She narrowed her eyes at the third man, which only made him smile. He was a large with dark curly hair and if she was in a better mood, she would have even said his smile had softened him, making him more handsome than menacing. But she was in a bad mood and wanted to slap his smile off of his face. “If you would excuse me.”

She pushed past the not-so-dazzling one, hearing a roar of laughter behind her as she made her way to Bernadette. When she reached her friend, she flung herself into Bernadette’s tall, thin frame. She smelled like roses and riches, or what Cosette imagined riches must smell like. It was very different from what she was used to.

“Birdie, I’ve missed you,” Cosette said, squeezing her friend. “You smell so good. You smell like a girl, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve smelled like an actual girl? Actually, you don’t want to know. It’s a disgusting amount of time.”

“Yes, well, you smell like salt water and fish,” Bernadette said as Cosette pulled away from her. Her friend absent-mindedly tucking a piece of Cosette’s deranged hair behind her ear, before her small, soft hands encircled her face—even though Bernadette was looking over her, not at her, smiling glowingly. “Do you know who that was you had just run into?”

“Some men with a bet running on who could be the first to find a willing girl, I’m assuming,” Cosette said, glancing back at where Bernadette was still looking. The men were still there, but they weren’t looking their way—they were discussing something and laughing.

“Those were Musketeers, Cosette!” she said excitedly, her eyes brightening. “Should we go over and introduce ourselves? Or is that too bold?”

Cosette made a face, gripping Bernadette’s thin, little wrists.

“I think I’ve been surrounded by men for months,” Cosette said, pulling Bernadette’s hands away from her face. “And that they smell horribly and are unbelievably loud and crass. And I think we should go find Delaney.”

“Yes,” Bernadette muttered, tearing her eyes away from the men and back down at Cosette, giving her a mocking irritable look. “Well, how horrible for you. Maybe you should have thought of that before picking your career path.”

“Maybe,” Cosette chirped with a shrug, intertwining her hand with Bernadette’s and pulling her away from the docks toward the tavern, where she was almost certain Delaney would be.

-

Francis leaned against the bulkhead—he had to bend down in order to do this, his crossed arms on the hard wood and his back curved. He peered at his sister—who had been stopped by three Musketeers without seeming to realize it. She always so single-minded, which he thought was endearing at times, but exasperating at others, like this one.

He tapped his fingers on the wood, straightening when one of the Musketeers bowed and smiled at Cosette.

"You need to give her more credit," Jean said, nodding down at the scene—his gray eyes, sharp as a blade, narrowed at the scene unfolding in front of them. Francis watched Cosette push her way through the crowd until she collapsed in the arms of Bernadette von Altenburg. He could hear the laugh of one of the Musketeers echo throughout the square. "You should stop projecting, you know, it's not your sister that is fooled by charming smiles and handsome faces, Francis."

Francis shook his head.

"Only one face and only one smile," Francis said, glancing at the man next to him.

Jean looked off toward the crowd again, suppressing a small smile.

"Who do you want me to follow? Cosette, or the cretins?" he asked, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his knife.

Francis looked too, watching his sister drag her friend away from the square, though Bernadette seemed rather reluctant, constantly glancing back at the Musketeers. 

"Cosette knows when she's being followed," Francis mused, watching the last of his sisters dress whip around a corner. "And I'm sure if their well-trained Musketeers, they will as well...follow Cosette, I'm sure they'll all end up in the same place anyways."

"And if not?"

"Then I was just being paranoid, and they were actually just trying to pick up women at the port," Francis shrugged, rubbing his chin and biting the inside of his lip.

"You don't sound convinced," Jean said, his fingers brushing down Francis’ spine, sending a shiver through him.

"I'm not.”

"No?"

"If they were really just trying to pick up women, why not go for Lady von Altenburg? She was obviously interested," Francis said, tasting blood--he had bitten through the skin. "Why talk to a woman who seemed wholly uninterested?"

"Maybe they weren’t looking for a challenge."

Francis threw Jean a look--one that said, don't start with me.

"Alright," Jean said, holding up his hands in innocence. “I’ll follow her—though I don’t think you give her enough credit, she’s handled herself in worse situations just fine.”

Francis said nothing as Jean walked down the ramp and entered the crowd. Honestly, he wasn’t so sure that Cosette could handle herself. He never had been. He had always thought his sister to be soft. And it was this trip that he had planned to find out if she could truly handle herself, and how brutal she could become.

-

Bernadette didn’t look nervous, but Cosette thought she should be. She looked too fancy for Miracles—her dress looked like something of royalty, which seeing as she was a lady-in-waiting, it probably was. And night had started to fall, the sun turning a tangerine color throughout peeking at Cosette through the buildings—it was so different than seeing it on open water. She had missed the loud noises of chattering people, whose names she didn’t all know, whose faces she didn’t all recognize.

Her friend babbled, unworried and unafraid, about news around the town since Cosette had left last—the search for the new Queen was the biggest topic. It had been two years since Queen Ann’s death.

“I wouldn’t wish it on anyone,” Bernadette said as they came to the door of the tavern called Le Dame Blanche, where they knew that Delaney was most likely at. “Being the Queen seems so romantic, but it really isn’t. None of your hopes or dreams matter when you’re Queen.”

“None of our hopes and dreams matter, because we’re women,” Cosette corrected, grabbing the door handle to the pub and opening it for Bernadette, who gave an exaggerated sigh and entered.

“But we all are doing fine, aren’t we?” Bernadette said, removing the coat that had been around her shoulders, which matched her dress. “I mean, we’re all happy.”

Cosette nodded, peering around the bar. She was happy—her brother didn’t have to take her with him once he left home, in fact, it wasn’t until he made her duel many of the pirates on the ship, that they elected her in at all, which was surprising—but they trusted Francis. As they should. And Delaney, last time Cosette had seen her, was happy as well. She still lived in where they grew up, in The Court of Miracles, but she was a well-known for her thieving skills in the right circles—which were the ones not involving soldiers or the King. As for Bernadette—everyone knew she would go far. She had been a beautiful, elegant child with cornsilk hair and bright eyes. And now she was a lady-in-waiting, what she had always wanted to be.

“Yes, we’re all fine,” Cosette said just as she spotted a pair of well-worn boots on a table in a far, dark corner of the tavern. A hand would appear from the shadows laying down shabby playing cards on the table. “Ah-ha!” she said, pointing at the corner as Bernadette looked around bewildered.

The hand stopped, hesitating to play another card, before it disappeared into the shadows and a large crash followed, echoing throughout the room. Cosette picked up her skirts and hurried toward the corner.

Delaney was sitting on the floor, rubbing her head and staring up at them in disbelief.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Laney,” Cosette laughed, ignoring the stares of the others in the dark bar as Bernadette helped Delaney to her feet. 

“Nice to see you too,” Delaney muttered still rubbing her head as Bernadette wrapped her long arms around their friend, pulling Cosette in as well.

“Oh, together!” Bernadette said, bouncing. “Together again!”

Cosette untangled herself from Bernadette’s grasp and pulled out a chair at Delaney’s table.

“What are you doing here all by yourself? And is your hair longer? It looks nice. Are they going to serve us, or do I have to go get it? I really need something to drink—it’s been a rough few days—well, weeks, actually months. It’s been a rough few months,” Cosette said, sinking into the chair and looking around the tavern. 

It was just starting to fill up as people started getting off work—a lone man had entered not much after her and Bernadette and had taken a seat a few tables down from them. For some reason he made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, maybe she was just being paranoid, but she thought he was looking at them.

“I had just finished a meeting,” Delaney said, waving over at the bar and righting her chair, before sitting in it. She put her hat back on her head and tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears. “And yes, it’s longer. Thanks. Your hair is…”

She trailed off, looking at Bernadette for support, but Bernadette was examining the faces in the tavern, not particular paying attention.

“I know, I know,” Cosette said, patting down the curly mess. “I only have a brush on the ship, no comb, and the salt water always makes it have a mind of its own.”

A woman came and slammed three mugs on the table, so beer sloshed out of the sides, before holding her hand out to Delaney. Rolling her eyes, Delaney dug in her pocket and paid the woman and then picked up her wet cards and drying them on her skirt.

“Do you think they have Florentines here?” Bernadette said, eyes darting toward the door as it opened as she daintily took a sip of her beer.

“As in the cookie? I’m sure I could ask Marie to whip you up—” Delaney started sarcastically, before Bernadette’s hand began assaulting her in a series of small jabs. Cosette, who had been trying to down her beer as quickly as possible, looked over at the two of them. Delaney shrinking away from Bernadette, trying to get away from her small, pale fists, but Bernadette had a long reach. Cosette smiled, she had missed this.

“God, what?” Delaney asked, grabbing ahold of one of Bernadette’s fists and shoving it back at her.

Cosette raised an eyebrow at her, fixing her with an expression that said, Really?

“Her little fists are like sharp little knives,” Delaney said defensively, trying to move away again because Bernadette had taken ahold of her shoulder and was shaking it aggressively. “What?!”

“It’s those men!” Bernadette whispered excitedly to Cosette, her eyes bigger than they were in the square. “The Musketeers I was telling you about in the square! Do you think they followed us here?”

Cosette glanced at the door. For a moment she didn’t know if it actually was the same men from the square, but then she saw the largest of them—for some reason he stood out more than the rest, it was probably his smile and his size. None of them looked over as they made their way through the bar and sat door next to the lone man from earlier. Cosette felt uneasy as they all took off their hats and motioned for a drink.

“Oh, no,” Delaney muttered, sliding down slightly in her chair, pulling her hat down so it created a shadow across her face. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Bernadette asked, feeling her hair and smoothing out her dress. “I ask if men could have followed us here and you say, oh no?”

“No, no I’m sure they followed you here. You look beautiful, if I was a man I’d follow you here. It’s… nothing, it’s nothing,” Delaney muttered, taking a long drink from her mug. “Nothing at all.”

“Do you know them?” Bernadette asked eagerly. “Would you introduce us?”

“No and no,” Delaney muttered, taking another large gulp and sinking further in her chair.

The talking of the men had died down a little and Cosette looked over, noticing that they were all looking at them, much to Bernadette’s delight. The large one stood and started over, after being shoved by the one who thought he was dazzling.

“What is happening right now?” Cosette said, turning back and looking at Delaney, who just made a weird, unintelligible noise and downed the rest of her beer.

“Musketeer’s think we’re cute is what is happening right now,” Bernadette said breathlessly, hitting Cosette’s leg under the table. Her fists were like little knives, small and sharp; Cosette was sure she’d leave little bruises peppered on her legs.

“Hey,” the large man said, standing right in between Cosette and Bernadette, but only looking at Delaney, who somehow managed to sink further down in her chair. Cosette glared at him as he smiled at Delaney unabashedly. “Want to go another round?”

Delaney picked at the table, her face hidden under her hat. Bernadette made a strange sucking in noise, and Cosette felt anger boil up inside her. 

“Excuse me?” Cosette snapped, her chair scraping back as she stood and poked the man squarely in the chest. “Is that any way for a man to talk to a lady?”

“Cosette,” Delaney said, through her teeth as Bernadette gawked at her.

The large man raised an eyebrow, his smile fading as he looked at Cosette.

“Of cards,” he finished, looking back at Delaney, who was frantically motioning for another beer. Cosette glared back at the table of men—the one who thought he was dazzling tipped his hat and winked at her. “Would you like to go another round of cards?”

“Oh,” Cosette said awkwardly, biting her lip as she looked down at the table, suddenly unable to think of what to do next. “You definitely should have started with the card part.”

“I don’t play with cheaters,” Delaney said, not looking up at the man at all, but at her hands as she fiddled with her empty beer mug.

“I believe you’re the one who clean me out,” the man said, grinning again. “It’s Porthos by the way, I never got your—”

“Just because you didn’t cheat well, doesn’t mean that you didn’t do it at all,” Delaney said, cutting him off. Cosette didn’t try to muffle her laughter as she sat back down and the barmaid delivered more beer to their table.

“I think,” Bernadette said, giving Delaney a scandalized and baffled look, “what my friend, Delaney, meant—”

“I think Laney knows what Laney meant,” Cosette said, grabbing another beer and seeing that Bernadette’s look was turned onto her. She shrugged and shared a smile with Delaney.

“Delaney,” Porthos said, nodding as he smiled again—a closed mouth one as though he were trying not to show it. 

“And I’m Aramis,” a voice said, Cosette looked up from her beer to see the one who thought he was dazzling had appeared with his arm around Porthos’ shoulder. “And that over there is d’Artganan and Athos,” he pointed back at the table, where the young man Cosette had run into earlier sat with the other man who had come into the bar and stared at them, before smiling at Delaney, “are you going to be stealing all my friend’s money again tonight?”

“We’re actually having a lovely regathering of friends, so if you would please…” Cosette said as Aramis turned to look at her.

“Ah!” Aramis said, pointing at her. “Lady from the port! What are the chances? It must be fate.”

“Or a bit of stalking,” Cosette muttered into her beer.

Bernadette made a noise, causing Cosette’s eyes to dart toward her. Her face was reddening as she looked stared at Cosette in shock.

“And you are?” Aramis said, grinning at Bernadette.

Cosette’s friend balked, her face reddening slightly, which travelled down to her chest, before she cleared her voice and held out a hand.

“Bernadette von Altenburg, lady-in-waiting,” she managed.

“What is a lady-in-waiting doing in a place like this?” Aramis asked, pressing his lips to her hand, which Bernadette continued to hold up, even after he had let go. Delaney had already finished her second beer. “Athos, come over here! You’ll never believe the luck we’re having.”

Cosette peered over at the table, neither of the men at it looked amused, or like they were about to come over anytime soon.

“Alright,” Cosette said, setting her beer on the table and turning toward Aramis, readying herself to tell him off—he was smiling back at her, his dark, almost black eyes dancing with amusement as though he knew this would happen, as though he had been planning it.

“There you are,” a voice said, coming up from behind the two Musketeers.

Jean shoved his way between Aramis and Porthos toward Cosette. He grabbed her hand, pulling her up out of her chair and into his chest, gripping the back of her skull with a large hand, before kissing her. Cosette gripped the front of his shirt to stop herself from pushing him away.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, sweets, we should really get going,” he said in a voice that probably sounded normal to the people around them, but Cosette could hear the underlying tone of ‘you’re in deep shit.’ Jean threw pointed looks at Delaney and Bernadette, suggesting they should come as well. Delaney stood up immediately, but Bernadette, who had finally put down her hand was rubbing the spot Aramis kissed it and shyly smiling at him, Delaney shoved her.

“What?” she said, before looking up at Jean and seeing his stern look, before scrambling up as well.

“Sorry if they were bothering you, or were rude,” Jean said, turning toward Aramis and Porthos, who exchanged an odd look. “My wife often forgets her manners, and her ring.”

Cosette glared daggers at him, which he returned.

“They weren’t bothering us at all,” Aramis said, grinning—he seemed to flirt with everyone, man or woman, fake married or not. “You’re a lucky man.”

“Yes, lucky,” Jean said scathingly, his hand now wrapped around Cosette’s upper arm.

Porthos was still watching Delaney, his head tilted as she did everything to avoid his gaze. Cosette’s eyes bounced between them.

“They are very good company,” Porthos said, giving up on trying to get Delaney to look at him and smiling over at Jean, whose eye twitched—signaling that he did not agree. 

“Good, let’s go,” Jean pulled Cosette out of the tavern, not even glancing back to make sure the other two were following. Cosette did though, and saw Delaney rushing past Porthos and Bernadette lingering, giving Aramis a shy, weak smile. Cosette rolled her eyes.

“I cannot believe you just kissed me,” she snapped as soon as they were out of the tavern. Dark had fallen and Jean kept pulling her along behind him, Delaney and Bernadette were hurrying to keep up.

“And I cannot believe that you were chatting up Musketeers, I guess everyone’s full of surprises today,” he snapped, turning a sharp corner.

“Where are we going?” Bernadette said, out of breath—Cosette couldn’t be sure if it was from the running or from her absolute adoration of the Musketeer, she hoped it was the former.

“We,” Jean stopped, motioning in between him and Cosette, “are going back to our ship. I have no idea what the two of you are doing.”

“Charming as always, Jean,” Delaney said, giving him a wry smile.

“I don’t know if you realize, but we’re not actually married,” Cosette said, ripping her arm out of his grip. “I’m not going back to the ship, I’m staying with Laney tonight and being neither my husband nor brother, you really don’t have any say in it.”

Jean stared at her, making her regret her words immediately. She started to back away, but he was too quick, he bent down and wrapped his arms around her middle, throwing her over his shoulder. Cosette tried to fight it by pounding his back, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.

“This is extremely embarrassing,” she said, propping her elbows on his back in resignation.

“You should have thought of that before, darling,” he mocked, nodding at her friends in a form of goodbye.

Delaney was trying to muffle her laughter and failing, Bernadette had also cracked a smile.

“Will we be seeing you tomorrow?” Bernadette called as Jean started to walk away with her.

“Oh, yes, once I talk to my brother about my husband, I’m sure everything will be fine,” Cosette said, waving at her friends. “And then you,” she pointed at Delaney, “will have to tell me what was up with you and that man!”

Delaney’s face tinged red, before she turned on her heel and started walking away, Bernadette bouncing behind her, pelting her with questions about both Porthos and Aramis.

“You’re one of my least favorite people,” Cosette muttered to Jean.

“You keep telling yourself that.”


	3. J'ai Fait Une Erreur Terrible

Cosette woke up to the squawking of seagulls and the shouts of people from the square. The boat rocked softly as she stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t tell what time it was—her room was basically a closet and didn’t have windows, only a crate for her clothes and her bed, which was just a large canvas bag stuffed with wool.

She played with her hair—still stiff and coarse, seeing as she had never gotten a proper bath, something she had been hoping to do at Delaney’s after the tavern.

Jean had barely spoken to her on the walk back, even though she had sorely complained about his shoulder digging into her stomach the whole time. The only thing he had said to her after they had left Delaney and Bernadette was ‘goodnight’ after he had thrown her on her bed and shut the door behind him.

What she really wanted to know was what the big deal was. She had talked to soldiers before and Jean hadn’t run in, accosting her with his mouth.

Cosette wiped her mouth even at the thought of it, making a face.

She had slept in the dress she had worn yesterday, unable to untie it by herself and her ribs were killing her. And then she thought of Delaney and the look on her face when that Musketeer had come to the table, Porthos. A thief and a Musketeer, perfect fit, nothing could possibly go wrong.

Groaning, Cosette sat up, trying to stretch as much as she possibly could, before putting on her boots and heading out the door.

The fresh morning air felt good in her constricted lungs. It was barely daybreak, the sun only just starting to rise and Cosette didn’t see anyone on deck, which meant she could probably—hopefully, leave without anyone knowing. She tried to make as little noise as possible as she made her way toward the ramp, trying to remember exactly how to get to Delaney’s house from the port, which was on the total opposite side of the city—one she hadn’t much travelled as a child, or at all as an adult. They had usually stuck to Miracles—which she knew like the back of her hand, but the rest of Paris, especially since it was changing all the time, was a mystery to her.

“Morning,” a voice said, directly behind her—causing her to start and also scream in surprise. She clamped a hand over her own mouth, before whipping around to see Jean, who was looking thoroughly unamused as always.

“What?” she snapped after dropping her hand. “What do you want?”

Jean stared at her with his gray eyes narrowed, and his arms crossed over his chest.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “I was just saying good morning.”

Cosette waited for him to continue, for him to tell her she couldn’t leave the ship, for him to lecture her about responsibility and the price of being someone important to the captain of a pirate ship, but he didn’t. He just continued to stare at her as though he didn’t care what she did at all—which she knew wasn’t true, he always had an opinion on the things she did.

She started toward the ramp, her eyes darting back toward him, seeing if he would stop her, but he still said nothing.

“I’m going to Delaney’s,” she said slowly, stepping on the ramp, testing it with her foot as though it might break, sending her careening into the water and stalling her from leaving.

Jean shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still narrowed.

“Alright, is this a trick?” Cosette asked, taking her foot off the ramp and facing him. “Because it feels like a trick.”

Jean clenched his jaw.

“Out of all the things that happened to you yesterday, you think this feels like a trick? You think I’m trying to trick you?” he said, uncrossing his arms and putting a hand on his pistol—a compulsive tic that showed that he was beyond feeling annoyed and was headed toward furious.

“Well, yes,” she said, now crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him. She could be just as infuriated with him as he was her—actually, she couldn’t. Jean had a special knack for being infuriated, something Cosette had never mastered, but she could pretend. “It’s not that unbelievable. Remember that time you sent me into that Count’s house and he tried to feel down my dress, because Francis needed those stupid velvet curtains and you had to get them for him?”

“Oh, would you shut up about that,” he snapped, waving a hand toward her dismissively. “First of all, like I always say, that was your idea. You wanted to get him those curtains for his birthday.”

“You’re the one who told me about how much he loved them!”

“Yes, because you asked what we should get him for his birthday and I mentioned the curtains, but I hadn’t meant those exact curtains.”

“And yet, you went along with it, and let that gross man put his hands on me!”

“I did not! I told you to stall him so I could get them curtains, it’s not my fault your version of stalling is to shove your breasts into a strangers face!”

“Well, my quick wit wasn’t working! Brains don’t distract men, Jean, breasts do! And for your information, I did not shove anything in anyone’s face, I—”

“She isn’t wrong,” one of the new crew members, George, interrupted as he rubbed his eyes and started toward the ramp. “Don’t think I’ve looked at a woman and thought, hmmm, nice brain. But tits, Cozi’s got some nice tits.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cosette snapped and her the distinct click of Jean cocking his pistol. She turned and saw Jean was pointing it at George, who put his hands in the air in mock fear, looking rather unimpressed by the both of them, before he made his way down the ramp, whistling a tune off-key.

“God, I hate that guy, why did we decide to let him on the ship?” Cosette muttered, slumping against the bulkhead and glaring at the back of George’s head.

Jean shrugged again, lowering his gun.

“I tried to convince Francis to leave him in Valencia,” he said, glowering after the man, his hand still around his pistol like he was actually going to use it.

“Francis never lets us have any fun,” Cosette said and Jean murmured an agreement.

George turned, grinning sardonically and giving them a solute, neither of which they returned.

“Maybe you could accidentally stab him,” Cosette said, glancing back at Jean, whose expression read: shut up. “I mean, fights get messy all the time—maybe once your sword just slips....”

“Weren’t you headed somewhere?” he asked, ignoring her treacherous plan.

“Are you going to follow me?” Cosette asked, stepping onto the ramp—it hadn’t collapsed under George, so she felt safer about using it—and gripping the rope railing.

“I trust you,” he said, glancing over at the door to Francis’ cabin.

“Trust me to what?” Cosette asked, brows furrowed.  
Jean looked back at her, sticking his gun back in the holster and taking his hand off of it, before running the same hand through his hair.

“Not to be fooled by pretty faces,” he grinned his version of a grin, which looked to Cosette more like a grimace.

They stared at each other a moment longer, before Cosette turned on her heel and left the ship without saying goodbye. She mulled over his words, feeling the point of her dagger trying to break free from its leather hold and stab her thigh with every step she took.

-

Delaney was cleaning—really cleaning, which was something she didn’t do often. She had actually gotten on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floors of her kitchen and living room, which were kind of the same thing, trying to figure out when they had gotten so filthy. She washed all her dishes, most of which had a thin layer of dust on them from unuse; she had beaten all her curtains, all of which had a ridiculous amount of dust in them; and she had even tidied up her room—if one could even call it a room.

It was more like a closet, big enough for her bed and dresser, but nothing else—barely even her. When she laid down both her head and feet brushed the opposite walls. She had straightened and dusted the tower of books on her dresser, and shoved all of the dirty clothes that had littered her whole house underneath it, concealing all the things she didn’t feel like washing. 

Now, she was standing at the door of the only other room of the house—a house she inherited from her father when he passed away almost two years ago. She hadn’t been in her father’s room since before he died, seeing as she had barely been in when he was alive, even though she had outgrown her own room before she had even technically become an adult. He had always had his door shut, so sometimes, Delaney would look at the door and forget he was gone, until she saw the dusty knob.

Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on that knob. She needed to clean the room—not just because she needed a bigger space for herself, but if Cosette was going to stay with her, Delaney needed an actual place to put her. Even though she was small, Cosette wouldn’t fit comfortably in Delaney’s bed with her, nor the couch. And besides, it was time.

Delaney turned the knob, readied herself with three quick breaths, and began to push the door open, when a sudden banging on her front door startled her—she pulled her hand from the door as though it had suddenly caught on fire and gripped her hand like the knob had burned her, wondering if her father’s spirit had risen to scold her for trying to enter his sacred space.

But the banging happened again, this time accompanied with a bellow, “Delaney! Open the goddamn door.”

For a second, Delaney squeezed her eyes shut and took another deep breath, though this one was filled with relief. It wasn’t her father’s spirit haunting her. It was only Hughes.

Hughes, who always arrived at the worst times, who hurtled everywhere he went—hurtled his fists against doors, hurtled into people without saying sorry, hurtled into situations without thinking, and hurtled out of them somehow always unscathed—who had been the only one to stay after everyone else had left.

“Delaney,” he groaned—she couldn’t actually see him, but she could picture him: Stooped over, his face pressed against her door, which is why his voice was muffled, and his huge hands splayed on it as well. Delaney was sure her neighbors, Madams Lonchay, twin crones, who never married, were watching Hughes from their window—which was located at the perfect spot to give them full access to watch whatever was happening at Delaney’s. Whenever she saw them, whether they were sweeping their stoop together or spying on her, Delaney thought she might be looking at her future, though, hers was a lot lonelier, seeing as she did not have a twin to conspire with. Or anyone, really, for that matter.

When she opened her eyes, she noticed that the door to her father’s room had opened a bit, giving her the smallest glimpse of the room—it was dark, covered in dust, and unchanged.

Hughes’ fist collided with the door again.

“I know you’re in there!” he yelled, voice still muffled, meaning he hadn’t moved his head from the door. “I looked in your window before knocking!”

Heaving a great sigh, Delaney marched toward the front door, ripped it open, and then stalked back to her father’s door—her fingers grazing the wood as she pushed it openly slowly. The hinges creaked. Hughes slammed the front door closed, after he ducked into the house.

He was a large man—one of the largest she’d ever seen, which is why Delaney could never understand how he could possibly be a good thief. Hughes was so distinct looking—his broad, slouched shoulders, large and slightly crooked nose, and unusual face, which wasn’t what she’d call handsome, but striking. He shouldn’t have ever been able to get away with stealing anything. But he did. He did it all the time.

“What are you doing?” he asked, peering around the room. “It smells weird in here.”

“Like lemons,” she said, eyeing her father’s room. Everything looked fuzzy—the few books on his desk, the blanket on his bed, the pile of rolled up scrolls in the corner of the room. “I cleaned the house.”

Hughes snorted, and Delaney instinctively scowled in his direction.

“I’ve never seen you clean before,” he said, looking at the sink. “What’s the occasion?”

“Cosette is back in town,” she said, walking the few steps it took to get to her kitchen and getting a rag, a bucket of soapy lemon water, and her broom—cleaning her father’s room was going to take the rest of the morning. 

“Ah,” he said, walking to her couch and collapsing in it. “The mysterious girl returns.”

“She’s anything but mysterious,” Delaney muttered, trying to figure out how to clean a room that hadn’t been touched for over two years. The broom would just irritate the situation, she put it back and grabbed another rag.

“Not the way you describe her,” Hughes muttered.

He was lying on her couch, staring up at the ceiling and drumming his fingers on his chest. He looked ridiculous—seeing as he was about two sizes too big to lie on her couch. His head was dangling off one armrest and his knees over the other. Delaney momentarily considered getting a bigger couch, before shaking her head of the thought. She didn’t need to get anything new in her house for him. Or anyone.

“And how do I describe her?”

“You don’t,” he said, grinning at her. “That’s why she’s so mysterious.”

Delaney rolled her eyes and threw a rag at him.

“If you’re going to stay, you have to clean,” she said, doing a few short, deep breaths and charging into her father’s room, darting for the window to open it. She had to hit the latch with the heel of her hand multiple times, before it would open—finally letting her suck in a deep, not dust filled breath.

Early morning sunlight spilled into the room. It was dirtier than she thought. Dead moths with various amounts of dust on them, depending on their demise, were scattered along the floor. The blanket on the bed was ruined by the moths—but also looked like it was a lumpy mountain covered in fuzzy, gray snow. 

Hughes’ lip curled as he ducked his head under the doorframe and looked around the room.

“If I said I had a present for you, would it get me out of cleaning?” he asked, limply holding up his rag, which was roughly the size of his palm.

“Saying you have a present and actually having one are two very different things,” Delaney said, barely opening her mouth, so the grime wouldn’t get in as she started shaking out the bedding—by the time she was done, dust had stirred from every surface and was floating haphazardly around the room.

Hughes brushed himself off, before backed out of the room as she came toward him with an armful of dirty, decaying blankets.

“I actually have one,” he said, following her as she dragged the blankets out into the minuscule yard she had behind her house.

“Yeah?” she said, dumping the blankets into the yard and brushing off the filth from her clothes, though it was no use. She would have to go back into the room anyways. “Well, I don’t see a present.”

“That’s because,” Hughes said, reaching out a large hand and brushing something out of her hair. Delaney jerked her head away his hand, which hovered for a bit, before he raised it to his own head and tapped his temple. “It’s up here.”

“Well, out with it,” she said, hands on her hips. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Wait,” he said, leaning against the side of her house and narrowing his dark eyes. “What do I get for it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Delaney snapped mockingly. “I do believe you said it was a present, not a trade.”

Hughes tilted his head back and forth, while biting his lip as though he were going through a grueling internal debate.

“Fine! You don’t have to help me clean! You can just sit on your lazy ass and talk endlessly, while I work tirelessly cleaning and try to ignore you,” she said, watching a victorious grin spread across his lips.

“Excellent,” he said, pushing himself off the wall, bending his head down towards hers conspiringly, before murmuring, “I’ve got a name.”

Delaney rolled her eyes.

“Congratulations, you and the rest of the world have been christened,” she said as she went to push past him, but he caught her hand, which she pulled from his grip almost immediately.

“I’ve got a name,” he said, his voice still low, “for the man who owns Le Poignard de Saphir.”

\- 

Cosette wandered through the town—it looked so different in early morning, not at all like it had the night before with Bernadette. She should have paid more attention to where they were going, but she hadn’t. And now she was lost. 

She had always been shit with directions anyways, which is why Jean never let her steer the ship. Francis did sometimes, when he was feeling vindictive. His eyes would bounce from her hands on the wheel to Jean’s sour face, all while grinning that rare grin of his.

People bustled all around her many of them shoving into her as they made their way through the market. Life on land was always shocking to her at first—on the ship they all worked together, they all knew one another, here she was surrounded by strangers, constantly looking into the faces of people she didn’t recognize. 

She was biting into one of the apples that she had swiped earlier from a stall, and looking around for anything that looked remotely familiar, when she saw a face that she did recognize. Her eyes locked with the man’s dark eyes momentarily, before she spun on her heel and headed in the opposite direction, even though it was the one that she had just come from. This was the last thing she needed.

Shoving herself through the throng of people, Cosette tried to make it to a crowded alleyway, which she was pretty sure she could get lost in when a hand grabbed her arm and turned her around.

It was the young one. The one had run into her the first time.

“Excuse me,” he said, his head tilting to the side as a small smile played on his lips. Cosette narrowed her eyes at him and took another bite of her apple. “But you dropped this.”

He was holding up another apple, which Cosette stared at briefly, before glancing at her bag, making sure that there wasn’t a tear, only that she had shoved the apples in chaotically, causing one to spill out. Thankfully, it was the latter.

“How kind of you, monsieur,” she said, grabbing the apple from him and tucking it safely into her bag. She had grabbed two extras for Bernadette and Delaney, but now that one was covered in dirt and bruised, she thought she might just eat the other and pretend she hadn’t thought of them at all.

“D’Artagnan,” he said, moving a bit of his long hair from his face, before resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Cosette eyed it for a moment, annoyed that he could have his strapped around his waist, while she wasn’t allowed to bring her sword anywhere, if she wasn’t on the ship. She could still feel her knife digging uncomfortably into her thigh—it wasn’t even that good of a weapon, seeing as she’d have a rough time reaching it if anything horrible actually started to happen, but it was something, she supposed.

“Good day, monsieur,” she said with a mockingly cheerful grin, turning away from him and almost smacking straight into the chest of another man. 

It was a different Musketeer, Aramis—the idiotic one, who thought he was dazzling.

Cosette bit her lip to keep from letting out a very long, irritated sigh. This, this man was actually the last thing that she needed.

“Well, well is this fate, or a bit of light stalking?” Aramis asked, obviously amused with himself.

“Well, it isn’t stalking, and if it is fate it would seem that God has cruel sense of humor, wouldn’t it?” she snapped. It felt as though she was being herded by Musketeers, which was putting her in a foul mood. If Jean was following her, which wouldn’t be surprising, and saw that she was with them again, he would never let her off the ship ever again.

D’Artagnan moved around her so he was standing next to his companion and blocking her exit to the alley. Cosette did not hold in her very long, irritated sigh this time as she looked around her for another escape route.

“Ah,” Aramis said with a nod, tipping his hat down a bit and looking toward the crowd as well. “Worried that your husband might find you flirting with Musketeers?”

“If this is what you think flirting is, I’m sure you’ve had a very uneventful love life,” Cosette muttered, looking down at her apple, which was starting to brown. She found she wasn’t very hungry now.

“Would you like to change that?” he asked, tipping his hat down at bit and winking.

Cosette glared up at him, holding his gaze.

“I,” she said, tossing the apple to the ground, “would rather die.”

D’Artagnan’s lips tightened as he tried not to grin, but instead looked about the crowd as though he wasn’t listening at all.

Aramis merely smiled and shook his head a little, watching the half eaten apple roll in the dirt.

She hated to admit, even to herself, that he was obnoxiously attractive. It was the reason he found himself so dazzlingly—the smile, the dark eyes, the dangerous and seductive air that he had about him. And she would be lying, if she said that her stomach didn’t flutter when he looked at her. But she had even heard of him before—rumors among the pirates mostly, about how women dropped dead after touching him. He was trouble—more than trouble, he was certain death.

“What are you doing on this side of Paris, if it’s neither stalking nor fate?” he asked, his eyes darting toward d’Artagnan for a second, and then back to her. The younger Musketeer’s eyes were trained on something behind her, which made Cosette nervous.

“Well, if you must know, I’m lost,” she said, twisting around and seeing the other two Musketeer’s from the night before, moving through the crowd toward them. “I’ve been looking for Miracles all morning.”

“It is fate then,” Aramis said, sounding closer than before. Cosette turned back around and glared at him, before placing a hand on his chest and shoving him away from her.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she said, just as the other two Musketeer’s joined them—Porthos and Athos. “Miracles, which direction is it in?”

“Miracles?” Porthos said, grinning and laying a hand heavily on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, which made the younger Musketeer tilt toward him a little. “D’Artagnan’s excellent with directions, aren’t ya? He can show you where it’s at.”

D’Artagnan glared over at Porthos and ducked his shoulder, so Porthos’ hand fell off of it.

“Miracles,” Athos repeated in a low, monotone voice as he eyed her critically, forcing Cosette to remember the state of her hair and the fact that she probably still smelled like salt and fish. “Are you sure? It’s not exactly a place for a...” he drifted off as his eyes swept her again in a disparaging manner, “…lady.”

“You know, I’m sure I can find it on my own,” Cosette said, her smile thinning as she backed away from the men. “Thank you, for all your…help.”

She turned began to walk away when another voice called out and startled her.

“Cosette?” the voice said.

Cosette closed her eyes as her hands closed into fists—she wanted to scream. She didn’t want to be here surrounded by Musketeer’s and being called on by men—she wanted to be a Delaney’s, she wanted to be taking a bath, she wanted the men behind her to stop mocking d’Artagnan for not walking her to Miracles.

“If you’re so desperate, you walk her,” the youngest Musketeer said, probably convinced Cosette couldn’t hear him, but she did.

“What?” she snapped, turning toward whoever had called upon her now.

Jacques blinked, his grin fading slightly as he eyed her exasperated expression.

“Jac?” she said, her anger forgotten as she looked over the man who stood in front of her—the crowd around them casted annoyed looks their way for stopping in the middle of the road.

“I can’t believe it’s actually you,” Jacques said, running a hand through his hair, which was long and darker than Cosette remembered it being—it was almost to his shoulders and looked almost brown now. But the last time she had seen him, had been six years ago and he hadn’t been nearly as muscular than, nor as worn and dirty. He was covered what looked like ash and sweat—the black soot making his steely eyes shine more. “I… I don’t think I ever thought I’d see you again. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Miracles to see Delaney, but I got held up.” She threw an annoyed glare back at the Musketeer’s—Athos and Aramis were eyeing them curiously, while Porthos was shoving d’Artagnan, grinning as he said something Cosette couldn’t hear.

Jacques eyed the Musketeer’s warily and Athos started over, causing the rest of his entourage to follow.

“Great,” Cosette muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, you know them?”

Jacques gave a half-hearted shrug, one that said: I know of them.

“You’re one of the garrison’s blacksmiths, are you not?” Athos said. It was a statement, not a question.

Jacques nodded slowly, his eyes darting toward Cosette and then back toward Athos.

“Yes,” Cosette said, grabbing Jacques’ arm. “It’s actually a miracle I ran into him! I was actually going to Miracles to see him—he’s my brother-in-law. You guy’s remember my husband, Jean? This is his brother, Jacques, now if you would please excuse us, we must get going.”

Cosette pulled on Jacques’ arm, trying to get him to move, but he only did after nodding at Athos, whose eyes were narrowed suspiciously. 

“Brother-in-law?” Jacques said with a confused smile, after they were a good distance away from the four men. “You told those guys you were married to Jean?”

“No,” Cosette said, smiling up at him. He wasn’t the same as Jean—Jacques wasn’t tall and lean, but built like an ox. He had arms that were bigger around than Cosette’s legs, and he smiled, often, which was something Jean rarely did. “You’re idiotic brother kissed me last night, because those men were trying to lure Delaney and Bernadette back to their filthy beds.”

“Jean,” Jacques said slowly, biting back a laugh, “kissed you?”

“Oh, shut up and show me where Miracles is,” she said, glancing back in the direction of the Musketeers, relieved that she could no longer see them. “Paris keeps getting more and more confusing.”

-

“Is it just me or have those two…” d’Artagnan trailed off, his brow furrows as he gestured at the girl and man who just left, before looking at Aramis for support. The girl had looked like she was about to go on a murderous rampage, before she saw the blacksmith, who caused her to light up—as much as she possibly could given the state she was in. She was filthy and reeked of fish.

“Oh, they definitely have,” Aramis said, nodding and tapping his finger on his bottom lip, while his eyes followed the woman pirate and blacksmith until they disappeared into the crowd.

“Those two?” Porthos said, raising an eyebrow at Aramis. “Nah, she’s married to his brother, isn’t she? That scrawny guy from last night.”

D’Artagnan and Aramis both looked over at him incredulously.

“Seriously?” Aramis said, shaking his head. “I’ve really got to teach you about women, and then d’Artagnan here can teach you about men—seeing as that woman’s supposed husband couldn’t take his eyes off of him last night.”

D’Artagnan sneered at him and muttered, “You’re hilarious, really.”

“Well, that man last night was obviously not her husband,” Athos added, drumming his fingers along his sword and glaring into the crowd, even though the pirate and blacksmith had long disappeared.

“Yes, seeing as he was undeniably gay,” Aramis said. 

“Hmmm.” Porthos rubbed his beard. “Obviously…undeniably…” he said nodding, before looking back at Athos. “How is it obvious?”

“Because neither of them were wearing rings, and women who forget their wedding rings don’t reject men; and like I said, I saw him looking rather fondly at d’Artagnan when he first came into the tavern,” Aramis said, patting Porthos on the shoulder. “Too fondly.”

“Ah,” Porthos said, shoving d’Artagnan again. “Well, at least now we know why you didn’t want to walk the woman to Miracles, got someone else on your mind, do you?”

“I’m sure if you ask nicely, she’ll introduce you,” Aramis said, sharing a smile with Porthos.

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

“A little nervous, are you?” d’Artagnan asked. “I mean, if you can’t even get a pirate to like you… You might be losing your touch.”

“You actually think she doesn’t like me?” Aramis said smirking. “That’s adorable.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and headed back toward the garrison with Aramis following him, whistling a Spanish tune.

“You know he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel when he’s going after pirates,” Porthos said, following behind the other two and grinning over at Athos.

“Pirates, thieves,” Athos muttered, “what’s the difference?”

“What did you say?” Porthos asked, stopping abruptly and glaring at Athos, who kept walking. His hand gripping the hilt of his knife. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ah,” Aramis said, turning toward them and walking backwards. “You know, Athos, always bitter. Soon, d’Artagnan and I will each have a pirate, you’ll have a thief, and Athos will only be kissing a bottle.”

“Do you even listen to the words that come out of your mouth?” d’Artagnan scoffed, shaking his head.

“All of you,” Athos snapped, walking ahead of them. “Get back to work.”

-

By the time Jacques deposited Cosette at Delaney’s front door, her head was spinning. Not only was Jacques married, but he had children—three daughter’s to be exact. He had married Louise Cartier—a girl Cosette barely remember, only that she was a lesser version of Bernadette. She had had duller hair, duller eyes, and a duller personality, which made sense—seeing as Jacques had favored Bernadette when they were growing up. Cosette reminded herself that she and Jacques had settled for each other back then, because no one else had really been around. And that him being married shouldn’t be surprising—that’s what normal people did. 

“I’ve missed you,” Jacques said, standing a little too close to her for comfort.

Cosette stepped back.

“I would love to see Louise again, and meet your children,” she lied through a too big smile. “Maybe I could get Jean to come as well?”

Another lie—Jacques and Jean had never been able to tolerate each other. Jean wouldn’t visit his brother’s house even if her life was threatened—well, he would probably step in the house, if someone was seriously going to take her life, but he wouldn’t stay longer than a minute.

“Maybe,” Jacques said, leaning toward her again—just then the door opened and Delaney peered out of it, her eyes narrowed at Jacques.

“Jac,” she said curtly, nodding at him and then grabbing Cosette by the arm.

“Delaney,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head, looking a little peeved. They had never seen eye to eye either. 

An awkward silence filled the air—when someone from inside Delaney’s house bellowed, “All this waiting isn’t making me believe she exists!”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Cosette said to Jacques and throwing him a quick grin, before Delaney pulled her into the house and slammed the door shut.

“Jac,” Delaney said, once they were inside. “Really?”

“He saved me from those stupid Musketeers, who might be stalking me, by the way. Not that you care you’re basically in love—” Cosette started, before Delaney slapped at hand over Cosette’s mouth and hissed, “Shut up.”

Suddenly, there was a shadow looming over them and Cosette looked up. And up. At a man who was taller than anyone she had ever seen and who was grinning down at her. He was over a good foot taller than her.

“You must be Cosette,” the man said as Delaney peeled her hand off of Cosette’s face. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”

Cosette gave Delaney a look, which said: who the hell is this? Before turning back toward the man.

“And I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you,” she said back to him. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Hughes,” he said, leaning against a wall and peering at Delaney, “What were you saying about Delaney? She’s in love with someone?”

Cosette’s mouth opened and closed, Delaney elbowed her, hard.

“Oh yes, with Jean,” Cosette said for no reason at all. Delaney caught her eye—she was not happy.

“Jean?” Hughes said, cocking his head a bit and looking confused. “Who’s Jean?”

“My husband,” Cosette said, cringing. She wasn’t the best at lying.

“Wait,” Hughes said, shrugging himself off the wall, still looking completely bewildered. “You’re in love with her husband?”

Delaney’s eyes darted from Cosette, who was shrugging apologetically, to Hughes, who was waiting for an answer.

“Yes, well, that sounds about right,” Delaney said, shooing at Hughes, ushering him toward the back door. “It’s really time for you to go now. You know, we’ve got womanly things to discuss, like, how I’m in love with her husband and she’s a complete idiot.” 

“Wait,” Hughes said again, once Delaney had successful shoved him out the back door. “You’re—”

“I’ll explain later,” Delaney said, slamming the door in his face and rounding back toward Cosette, who was grinning innocently. “What. The. Hell.”

 

“I don’t know!” Cosette yelled, her hands flinging about dramatically. “I was surprised! You didn’t tell me a man was in the house, or that you had a man at all. I couldn’t think properly!”

Delaney started to open her mouth to yell that telling anyone she was in love with Jean was a horrible idea, Cosette was sure, when the front door burst open and shut almost as quickly.

A figure in an expensive cloak, stood in the doorway with the hood pulled down so even in the daylight their face was in the shadows. Cosette stumbled back away from in toward Delaney and started trying to lift her skirts up to grab her knife.

The figure threw back the hood and Bernadette was staring at them with tear-filled eyes, looking at Cosette with her skirts bunched up confusingly for a moment.

“I think…” she started, a tear spilling out. “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”


	4. Le Poignard de Saphir

Cosette stood with her skirts bunched around her thighs and gaped at Bernadette wordlessly. She wasn’t the best with tears or surprises, both of which Bernadette had managed to spring on her in a matter for seconds.

“What are you doing?” Delaney asked, a flicker of confusion appearing on her face as she eyed Cosette’s gathered up dress, and then Delaney shook her head as though to say: _Never mind, I don’t even want to know,_ and turned toward Bernadette, her both her expression and tone softening. “Birdie, what did you do?”

“I… _I_ …” Bernadette stammered, tears spilling out and running down her cheeks, she tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. And then, with a soft sniff, she collapsed elegantly to the floor with her expensive silk skirt bunched around her like a princess. Bernadette held her face in her manicured hands as her back heaved with each sob she took. 

Cosette still hadn’t said anything, but little scenarios of what Bernadette possibly could have done flashed in her mind: _stepped on one of the late Queen’s prized roses, turned down a wealthy suitor, dropped the Dauphin on his delicate little head, shoved a knife through the eye of man who looked at her funny, slept with that idiot Musketeer_ … She shook the thoughts from her head, and saw that Delaney was glaring at her from where she sat with an arm around Bernadette. Delaney looked pointedly at the top of Bernadette’s head and then back at Cosette, while humming comfort noises, such as _“Mmhmmm”_ , and convincingly saying things like, “it’s alright” and “everything will be fine.” Bernadette cried and clung to her, pressing her face into Delaney’s collarbone. Cosette rushed over to them and sat on the other side of Bernadette, awkwardly patting one of her slim shoulders and saying, _“Shhh,”_ —which she found out was _not_ a comfort noise, when Delaney glowered at her again and shook her head.

“It’s fine,” Cosette stuttered awkwardly, watching Delaney’s scowl slowly fade. “Everything’s… fine.”

And then the back door slammed opened, causing all of them to jerk their heads in the direction of the noise.

“You know,” Hughes said, stalking into the room and throwing the backdoor closed behind him. “I think I have the right to know about this _Jean_ guy—”

He stopped talking abruptly, his eyes transitioning from where he thought the girls would be, which was in the living room, to where they actually were, which was piled near the front door. Hughes’ eyes widened at the sight of Bernadette’s tears.

_“Hughes,”_ Delaney said through gritted teeth. _“Not now.”_

“Well…” he started, tearing his eyes away from Bernadette and looking at Delaney. “If not now, than when?”

Cosette heard Delaney muttered something under her breath, but she couldn’t make out what. Bernadette had turned away from the strange, hulking man and dug her face back into Delaney’s shoulder, sobbing still.

“I’m sorry,” Cosette said, pushing herself up off of the floor and taking a step toward him. She put on the face she used with Francis when he tried to act like as though he were her father instead of her brother—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, brow menacingly furrowed. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. It all really depended on how angry she actually was. “But are you a woman?”

“No?” Hughes said, his voice strangely high pitched, his eyes were darting between her and Delaney as he backed up a little.

Her scowl seemed to be working.

“Right,” she said taking another step toward him and placing her hands on her hips. “Then you really have no right to anything we’re talking about, seeing as I believe Delaney said we had _womanly_ matters to discuss. No breasts, no rights to this conversation.”

“She seems…upset,” Hughes said, glancing back at Bernadette, but backing toward the backdoor.

“Yes, well, if you were a woman, you would understand how upsetting it is to have to deal with the incompetence of men too,” Delaney called out, her tone abrasive, but she softly brushed Bernadette’s perfectly curled hair back away from her tear streaked face.

Hughes opened the door, looking slightly hurt, but mostly still in shock from walking into a room where he thought women would be gossiping and instead finding one weeping. He glanced back at Cosette, who was still looking as menacingly as she could at him.

“You’re Cosette Collins, aren’t you?” he said, eyeing the disastrous state of her. “The pirate girl?”

_“Woman,”_ she snapped, grabbing ahold of the door with one hand and shoving him out of the house with the other. “And do I look like a pirate to you?”

Hughes gave her a once over with one eyebrow raised.

“You smell like one,” he said, a slight smile spreading on his lips. Cosette thought that he looked a little goofy with his overall largeness—his hands were monstrous, his mouth was a bit too big, and even his crooked nose was large. Everything about him was loud and overbearing and large. And she didn’t like it.

“Is sniffing women a hobby of yours?” she asked, not returning his smile. “No wonder Delaney’s never mentioned you.”

She watched his grin instantly fall, before slamming the door in his face.

Delaney mouthed a ‘thank you’, obviously having not heard the conversation, and Cosette cautiously walked back over, placing her arm around Bernadette again.

“What happened?” Delaney murmured again, still brushing Bernadette’s hair back.

_“I…the…”_ Bernadette stuttered, taking a deep shaky breath, before wailing, “Cosette… you smell… _horrible.”_ And then she proceeded to cry even more, and buried herself further into Delaney’s embrace. Cosette made eye contact with Delaney, who shrugged the kind of apologetic shrug that said: _it’s true._

“Well,” Cosette said, rocking back on her heels away from the two of them. “Shall we move this to the washroom, then?”

-

It was only once they were situated—Cosette sitting happily in the tub, while Bernadette scrubbed her hair, happy to finally have something to do other than cry, and Delaney sitting on the bucket they had used to fill the tub—that Bernadette finally began.

Bernadette’s fingers were scouring Cosette’s scalp; her hair was stiffened from salt and tangled, but Bernadette had washed the hair off younger girls at the castle and knew some tricks to untangle even the most frazzled of hair.

“The King was considering me for Queen—well, not _considering_ exactly. He was wanted me to be the Queen,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, glad to have finally gotten it off her chest—she felt less heavy with her friends knowing. They would help. Delaney would know what to do, Cosette would make jokes, and Bernadette would be fine. Everything would be just fine. “And obviously, I could not do _that.”_

Cosette sat up, wrenching her head away from Bernadette fingers as she turned toward her—an alarmed look on her face. Bernadette’s heart fluttered with fear. She blinked hard so the tears wouldn’t come back. Her hands were still raised from where Cosette’s head had just been.

“What are you saying?” Delaney asked slowly.

“What I’m saying,” Bernadette said, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she grabbed ahold of Cosette’s shoulder and turned her back around, before starting to scrub her head again, “instead of taking his offer of being the new Queen of France, I left the castle.”

Cosette yanked herself away yet again—she looked ridiculous, her usually wild and large hair, plastered to her head like a wet dog, while her eyes, which were already a bit larger than normal, bugged out, giving her a slightly feral look.

“Birdie!” Cosette squawked. “They could chop off your head for that!”

“I _know_ ,” Bernadette snapped, grabbing her again and heaving her back down, so she could continue work the months of dirt, salt, and blood out of her hair—Bernadette assumed pirates didn’t bathe very often. “But the both of you could be executed for what you do, so what’s the difference, really?”

“Um… there’s a huge difference,” Delaney said.

Bernadette didn’t make eye contact with her. She hated disappointing Delaney. She hated disappointing anyone really, but with Delaney it was different. The girls were the only family she really had left—not counting the ladies at the castle, and Cosette rarely had high enough expectations of anyone to really be disappointed by anything, but Delaney… she had been so proud of Bernadette for making it to the castle, for making something of herself, for proving everyone who said she couldn’t wrong and now…and now, Bernadette was throwing that all away.

“The King might think you’ve been kidnapped, or something. He could send all of his guards out to look for you! No one’s looking for Cosette or I, no one _knows_ us!” Delaney’s voice was getting louder, angrier.

Bernadette snorted. All of Miracles knew of Delaney—swift fingers, a sharp dagger, and a silver tongue. And most of France didn’t know Cosette by name, but they had heard the rumors—those of a female pirate, small and savage. Whenever Bernadette heard the rumors, or got a letter from Cosette, she would be elated for days—months without notice could mean the worse. And she always tried to visit Delaney when she could, but making trips down to Miracles wasn’t exactly lady-like. But maybe, now she could be done here always—maybe all of France would be hearing fierce rumors about her one day.

“Maybe I’ll dye my hair, or something,” Bernadette said flippantly, waving away Delaney’s incredulous expression and focusing on Cosette’s hair. The weight of what she had done was threatening to come back, heavier this time, but Bernadette tried to wave the thoughts away. Delaney would make a plan, Cosette would make dinner, and Bernadette would be fine. Everything would be fine.

“ _Dye your hair_ …” Delaney repeated back faintly.

“Well, what do you suggest I do?” Bernadette said, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

_Everything would be fine._

“ _Go back_! Maybe no one has even notice that you left!” Delaney yelled, leaping off of the bucket. Bernadette felt Cosette start, before stilling completely—they both looked up at Delaney, who was pale with fury and fear. 

“I cannot just go back,” Bernadette said, her voice low and shaking as her fingers tightened on Cosette’s scalp; she felt the smaller woman cringe a little and she relaxed her grip. She took a deep, trembling breath and continued, “I cannot be the Queen. It will kill me to be Queen. Look at what happened to Queen Anne. I will not marry that insufferable man. I will not do it, Laney. I _will_ not.”

“You’re going to die a lot faster not being Queen,” Cosette muttered, which earned her a sharp look from Delaney. Bernadette fought the urge to dunk her head into the water.

“I will not live like that. I just _won’t_ ,” she murmured, tears threatening to spill again as she began working her fingers on her friend’s head again. Her fingers digging and rotating in circles. She had a feeling it didn’t feel great, but Cosette said nothing.

“Alright, alright,” Delaney said softly, sitting back on the bucket with a resigned sigh. “I’m sorry, we’ll figure something out.” 

Bernadette saw that Delaney was glaring at Cosette again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cosette said suddenly, her head bobbing enthusiastically underneath Bernadette’s hands. “We’ll think up the greatest plan. Best plan ever. We promise.”

-

“Have any of you heard of a Bernadette Von Altenburg?” Treville asked, he was reading a piece of paper on his desk, and not really looking up or acknowledging any of them.

D’Artagnan, who was leaning against the back wall, glanced toward Athos, knowing both Porthos and Aramis were doing the same. He did know the name, it was the lady-in-waiting they had seen at the bar with the thief and the pirate. D’Artagnan had seen her around the castle too, but had never had an actual conversation with the woman. She seemed a little vague and dreamy—always looking around like she had forgotten what she had been doing. He had seen Athos eyeing her more than once, however. 

“We know of her. She is one of the ladies-in-waiting, is she not? Is there something we should be aware of?” Athos asked, sounding as though he couldn’t care less about the answer.

Treville sighed and threw whatever he was reading face down on the desk, so none of them could read it.

“Just that she was informed that she was of interest to be the new Queen, and then suddenly disappeared. The rest of the ladies-in-waiting insist they do not know where she is. The First Minister has put the Red Guard on the matter,” Treville said, looking sour. “But I would keep an eye and an ear out. The King is…” he trailed off, looking for the right words.

“Desperate,” Porthos grunted, exchanging a smile with Aramis, and then looking at d’Artagnan as well. Treville looked thoroughly unamused by his comment, while Athos slowly turned to give Porthos a pointed look.

D’Artagnan bit the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh, neither at Porthos’ comment, nor the look Athos was giving him.

“…quite distraught over the whole matter,” Treville finished, still staring at Porthos. “But enough about that, do you have any headway with the pirate?”

“So far we know that Captain Collins switches ships often, and that his crew uses his name regularly as their own, so no one really seems to know what he looks like,” Athos said, turning back toward Treville. “And no one from Miracles seems to remember him.”

“So you have nothing,” Treville sneered, before sighing heavily and leaning back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. D’Artagnan thought of the unbathed woman, and wondered why Athos did not mention her as well. She was their best lead, after all. “ _Wonderful._ Great work, really. You’re dismissed.”

Treville waved his hand disdainfully at them, before picking up the paper and reading it again. The Musketeer’s filed out of the room, d’Artagnan watching Porthos throw a grin back at Aramis as they left the room.

No one said anything until they were about to leave the yard.

“You do remember that Porthos and I met Madame Von Altenburg just other night,” Aramis said, halting at the mouth of the entrance to the garrison. “At _Le Dame Blanche_. We tried to introduce you, but you and d’Artagnan seemed much more interested in wine than women, which isn’t _much_ of a surprise, but—”

“Did you?” Athos said indifferently, cutting Aramis off. “Well, as Treville said, she is not our problem.”

Porthos and Aramis shared another grin as Athos continued out of the yard.

“I think I would know where to find both her and the pirate girl,” Porthos said, cocking his head to the side, and watching Athos’ closely, but Athos’ expression didn’t change in the slightest. “If she were _our_ problem, that is.”

Athos paused, and glanced back at him. D’Artagnan watched his eyes narrow slightly as he contemplated the offer. 

“Where?” Athos finally said.

“I thought she wasn’t our problem?” Aramis quipped, receiving a quick, halting look from Athos.

“She isn’t,” Athos said slowly, not taking his eyes from Aramis, “however, the pirate girl is our only lead on the Captain, or have your forgotten the task at hand?”

Aramis merely rolled his eyes.

“I’d have to talk to someone,” Porthos said, smirking at Aramis. “In Miracles.”

Athos’ eyes darted between the three of them.

“d’Artagnan, come with me,” he said, jerking his head toward the entrance of the garrison. “You two find us, if you find anything useful.”

-

Porthos hadn’t been back in Miracles for a while, but it hadn’t changed—it never changed. Hungry children were running around with wild hair and dirty feet; grubby, worn looking men eyed him and Aramis with aversion, even though the both of them had changed into clothes more fitting for the area; and women eyed them warily, disappearing down alleys without a glance back. Coming back to Miracles never felt like coming home to Porthos, but instead, reminded him of the home he had now—of the family he had now.

He glanced back at Aramis, who was wearing an annoyed expression—one that hadn’t left his face since Porthos had told him who they were meeting, and then he looked around Miracles again. It had begun to remind him of something else—well, someone, really.

The first time he had met Delaney she had been a little drunk. She had had this slow smile—the corners of her mouth slowly creeping up as the night wore on—that had made him smile instantly. He liked having to work for this smile, and that she didn’t give it away freely, or just to anyone. And she had known he was a cheater, before he even sat down to play cards with her, she had sharp eyes like that, and Porthos had known she knew. And she knew that he knew she knew.

That was how it was. They just knew. 

She had beaten him, even though he had cheated, and she left him with nothing—not even her name.  
But he knew that he would see her again.

If anything, Aramis would make sure he saw her again. And when he had heard her name from her friend in the bar something had stirred inside of him—Porthos had heard her name before, which is why he was back in Miracles.

“I need to find someone,” Porthos said the moment he had seen the small, blonde woman. She turned toward them and gave Porthos a small grin. He knew Aramis was rolling his eyes, Porthos could practically feel it.

“Do you now,” Flea grinned, she was picking up dirty clothes from a basket. Porthos wrinkled his nose and looked around. He and Aramis had asked around a bit for her, and were pointed in this direction, but he had no idea what she was doing with a basket full of dirty clothes.

“Yes,” he said, hearing annoyance seep into his voice. Flea’s smile flickered, showing she had too. “I think you’ve mentioned her to me once or twice, her name is Delaney.”

Flea’s smile fell entirely at the name and her head snapped away from him as she busied herself with the cloth, folding it seemingly unnecessarily. She didn’t say anything, but let out a rather large sigh and began throwing each bit of folded cloth onto the bench beside the basket with a pointless amount of force. Porthos had remembered Flea complaining about a girl named Delaney, but he couldn’t remember the details really. Maybe it wasn’t even the same one.

“So, you know her,” he pressed after enough silence had passed between them for him to know she wasn’t going to answer.

“You could say that,” Flea huffed, brushing a bit of her hair out of her face and looking up at Porthos again. “She and her friends used to terrorize me.”

“Terrorized _you_?” Aramis said with a humorless laugh. Porthos glanced back at his friend, who was leaning against a wall, looking bored and irritated still. 

Flea threw him sneer, before her face cleared as she looked back at Porthos.

“She and her friends were always hanging around,” she said, waving a hand around. “Hanging might not be the right word. Screaming, running, _terrorizing,_ ” she shot a glare at Aramis, “seems more right.” 

“Friends?” Aramis said, shrugging himself off the wall and stepping closer.

“Yes, _friends_ ,” Flea sneered again, and then busied herself with her dirty clothes.

“I suppose, you wouldn’t mind telling us who these friends were?” Porthos asked, wanting to upturn the basket, so she wouldn’t have anything to do but answer his questions. He felt that might be a tad dramatic though.

Flea’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m no snitch,” she said quietly, her eyes dating around.

No one seemed to be listening to them, but Porthos knew better. Someone was always listening when strangers entered Miracles.

“I’m just asking about a few women,” Porthos said softly with a small shrug. 

“Just asking about a few women,” she said, attempting to mock his tone. “And what is it you want with these women, Porthos? What are you going to do if I tell you about them?”

“Nothing, we want to talk to them is all,” he said, and it was the truth. Athos said they didn’t want anything from the pirate girl except for her to give them information in regards to her brother. “Just to talk.”

Flea rolled her eyes.

“And what do I get for it?” she asked, picking a bit of crusty stuff off one of her pieces of cloth, before folding it along with the rest. Porthos swallowed the urge to ask her exactly what she was doing.

“Is the pleasure of our company not enough for you?” Aramis asked with a wry grin and Porthos shot him a look, but Aramis merely shrugged again and widened his smile at Flea, who was glaring daggers at him.

“Twenty sous,” Porthos said, holding his hand out toward Aramis, who sighed deeply and began digging through his pockets.

Flea thought it over, but not for very long.

“Thirty,” she countered, eyeing Aramis’.

“Fine.”

Aramis dropped the money into Porthos’ hand. Flea reached for it, but Porthos clenched a fist and shook his head. Flea stared at him for a moment, before letting out a resigned groan.

“Delaney used to hang around with Cosette Collins, I heard she’s back, actually, for a bit anyway, she’s _always_ just back for a bit—she’s short and loud and thinks she’s far prettier than she actually is and gave me this,” Flea pointed at a long, thin scar that started at she shoulder and went down into the sleeve of her dress. “She’s good with a sword.”

“Why?” Porthos asked, peering at the scar. He remembered seeing it—it went all the way down to her elbow, but had never asked about it.

“Why what?” Flea snapped, her eyes trained on his fist.

“Why did she give you that?”

Flea smirked and rolled her eyes.

“She has a temper, sort of. She’ll bend and bend and bend, and then suddenly, _out of nowhere_ , she’ll snap,” Flea said, waving her hand. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Porthos exchanged a look with Aramis, who was looking interested for the first time since they had arrived—he raised his eyebrows at Porthos, who shrugged and returned his gaze toward Flea.

“Anyways, Delaney also had Birdie—Miracles little princess, who had hair spun of gold and eyes the color of the sky itself, though I don’t think she actually lived here—just hung about. She went on and made something of herself, apparently. I just know her by Birdie, though. She’s good with a bow and laughs a lot and is kind of an airhead, by which I mean stupid, but I guess that’s what men like.”

“And Delaney?” Porthos asked, hoping she couldn’t hear the curiosity in his voice. He felt bad, learning things about her like this, but he also wanted to know.

“ _Delaney_ ,” Flea spit her name like a curse word. “She doesn’t bend, she just snaps.”

Porthos waited a bit to see if Flea would continue, but she didn’t. She was staring straight at him, like she knew that Delaney was the one he actually wanted to know about, so she wasn’t going to give him anything about her.

“Where’s Delaney live?” Porthos asked after a beat, lowering his fist, about to extend the hand to her.

“Shit if I know,” she shrugged, palm up and a grin tugging at her lips again.

“Well, would you be so kind as to direct us to someone who does?” Aramis said, unable to keep the venom from his voice, or not caring enough to hide it. Porthos thought the latter.

“Forty sous,” Flea said, counting the money already in her hand.

“Thirty-five,” Porthos countered, digging in his own pocket for the remaining five sous.

“His name is Hughes,” she said, pocketing her money and holding out her hand for the money he had pulled from his pocket. “He probably won’t tell you though. He’s got a thing for her.”

“For who?” Porthos asked, wanting to wait until the conversation was over to give her the rest of what he owed her. He figured she would be tight-lipped afterwards.

“Delaney,” Flea said, shaking her hand toward him impatiently, and glancing around her. “He’s always hanging about her, like the largest dog known to man…” she trailed off, seeming to be pondering something. “Actually, try the twins, Lonchay. I think they know Delaney well. Or I’ve heard they do, anyways.”

“Thanks,” Porthos said, trickling the rest of the sous into her hand and nodding at Aramis, motioning that they could leave.

“Porthos,” Flea called as they started to walk away. He paused, and turned toward her. She looked a little nervous. “Be careful with… _them_. They aren’t what people think.”

And then she turned away from him, abandoning all of her folded dirty clothes and heading into the crowd.

“Well, that was an ominous and dramatic exit,” Aramis said, nudging Porthos’ ribs and heading back toward the garrison.

“Yeah,” Porthos said, watching Flea’s back disappear into the crowd. “It was.”

-

They had moved to Delaney’s father’s—no, _Delaney’s_ bedroom. She was still getting used to thinking of it as her own, even though she had moved all her things in it. Her books were neatly stacked on the dresser, where she had also moved all her clean clothes—mixing them in with her father’s clothes, since wore them when was tired off skirts and dresses. She had moved her blankets and pillows onto the bed as well—which is where the three of them were sitting. Delaney was leaning against the headboard of her bed, worryingly watching Bernadette as she braided Cosette’s hair in the most pirate looking way possible. It was probably a bad idea, seeing as they didn’t need any more attention called to them—but Delaney didn’t have the heart to tell her. She looked at the large thick braid on top of Cosette’s head, which tapered off, and then at all the small sporadic braids done within her mane of hair, and knew that all the braiding was just taking Bernadette’s mind off of the situation at hand. 

“You could come away with me on the ship. Or gain a lot of weight. Oh! You could marry someone else—like, really fast, today even,” Cosette was babbling, not even giving Bernadette time to respond. She had been doing it for the last hour—listing impossible and useless solutions, but she was making Bernadette smile, which _was_ something.

“Cosette, you are truly not helping,” Delaney muttered, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. She said this even though she had no solutions herself. And she could feel Cosette scowling at her, which made her feel a little guilty. But only a little.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bernadette said, laughing a bit. “How many Florentines do you think I would have to eat for the King not to want me any longer?”

Delaney opened one eye, watching Cosette squint and cock her head in contemplation.

“At least a thousand,” she said finally, nodding as though she were agreeing with herself, which caused Bernadette grab her head and hold it still. “But probably more. I don’t know. I’ve never had a Florentine.”

“Well, we’ll have to change that someday,” Bernadette said brightly, before her smile tighten. Delaney could see that she remembered she probably wouldn’t be eating any Florentines anytime soon either.

Delaney opened her other eye and pulled her knees to her chest. She could think of something to help her friend. She had to. But for the time being, Bernadette could stay with her. If there was ever a good place to hide a person, it was The Court of Miracles—here, everyone knew how to keep a secret.

Cosette seemed to have heard the tone shift in Bernadette’s voice.

“Nah,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Fancy food always upsets my stomach, anyway. I eat the food of the peasants, or I eat nothing.”

Bernadette giggled, and Cosette smiled back at her.

“There,” Bernadette said, glowing as she examined Cosette’s hair—she looked like an adorable hooligan to Delaney, but Bernadette said, “You look very frightening. I wouldn’t want to come across you in a dark alley.”

“Ha, ha,” Cosette said with a mocking grin. “You’re _so_ hilarious. I’m actually a terrifying pirate, if the both of you must know. Men cower before me.”

Delaney cracked a grin at this. She didn’t have any trouble believing it—she had seen the way Hughes had looked at a smelly, unwashed Cosette earlier and she had seen her in fights with plenty of people growing up, but it was still always hard for her to imagine it. Her small, seemingly perpetually smiling friend, becoming something sinister was hard to picture—even after witnessing it.

“ _Sure_ , they do,” Bernadette said with an over exaggerated nod, her eyebrows raised high in disbelief. “I’m sure you’ve made many a man walk the plank.”

Cosette took a pillow and threw it at her. 

“You know nothing about pirating,” she said grinning, and flopping back on the bed.  
Bernadette started playing with Cosette’s hair again, humming some tune, Delaney was sure she thought was piratey.

Delaney was thinking of something else though—she shoved Bernadette’s problem aside for a moment to think of what Hughes had told her that morning, though it seemed like they had had the conversation days ago. _Le Poignard de Saphir._

Her father had been a thief, like her, while her mother had disappeared, or died, she didn’t really know, before she could even remember her. Delaney had grown up taking other people’s things and making them her own, but the one thing she remembered her father showing her, the one thing he always claimed to be his and his alone, besides her, had been his dagger. _Le Poignard de Saphir._ It was pure silver with sapphires in the hilt; her father claimed it was the sharpest dagger known to man. Delaney hadn’t seen it since he had been found dead in an alley almost two years ago. But Hughes claimed he knew who had it.

And the news _was_ a gift. It was a little part of her father back; it was the only part that mattered. And not only did Delaney have to figure out how to save Bernadette, but she needed to figure out how to get the dagger back.

And then, there was a knock at the door.

Delaney blinked, her thoughts of her father’s dagger receding from her mind. Bernadette had stopped humming. Cosette had sat up, staring at the bedroom door with her eyes narrowed. Delaney swallowed hard. Barely anyone ever came to visit her—now she had had Hughes, Cosette, and Bernadette all show up in one day, and whoever was at the door. She figured if it was Hughes again he would’ve knocked louder, he would’ve yelled something ridiculous by now.

The knock came again.

She shared a look with Cosette, whose eyes were large and panicky now, but Delaney could tell she was thinking—thoughts whirling around her head a mile a minute like always.

“Jean?” Cosette whispered hopefully, but she didn’t look convinced.

Another knock, louder and impatient.

Delaney held a finger to her lips and climbed off the bed, heading for the front door. She could have looked out the living room window first, but that only gave her a view of the street, and not her stoop.

Taking a deep breath, Delaney pulled the door open a crack and peered out of it.

It was a Musketeer, but he wasn’t dressed like one. He had dressed down for Miracles as though not to raise alarm, but Delaney could hear the rise of items being thrown together—pots crashing and sticks hitting walls in the distance. People knew the Musketeers were there, they were sending out warnings.

“Oh,” he said, smiling a handsome smile as he leaned against her doorway, faking surprise. Aramis. That was his name. Delaney remembered it from the night before. He looked around as though he didn’t know where he was. “I didn’t realize I was walking straight into heaven.”

“Excuse me?” Delaney said, peering around his shoulder and seeing both Porthos and another Musketeer. She shifted her gaze back onto Aramis, who was still smiling.

“Well, you _are_ an angel, are you not?” His grin widened and he winked.

Delaney heard someone snort loudly, and she looked back at Porthos, who was shaking his head and trembling with laughter he was trying, but failing to hold in.

“ _Of all the things…_ ” she heard him muttered.

“What do you want?” Delaney asked, her tone terse and her cheeks reddening. She was not in the mood to be made fun of, not that she was ever in the mood for it, but she was especially not right at this moment. She was also not in the mood to have a bunch of Musketeers at her house, and for a second, she wondered how they had even found her.

“Well,” Aramis faltered, obviously thinking that his pickup line was going to work. He looked back at Porthos, who only shrugged his shoulders, still laughing. The other Musketeer, whose name Delaney had forgotten, merely stared aloofly at her and offered Aramis no help at all. “Well, I came to see your friend.”

“My friend,” Delaney said slowly, straining to hear Cosette or Bernadette within the house, but heard neither.

“Yes,” Aramis said, waving his hand around as though that might give her a clue on who he was talking about. “You know, the beautiful one.”

Delaney’s eyes narrowed.

“The beautiful one,” she repeated, nodding her head in a patronizing way, of which Aramis did not seem to pick up on.

“Yes,” he said brightly, waving his hand over his face. “With the hair and the eyes.”

Porthos snorted again.

“Well, I’m the only one here,” Delaney said, glowering at each one of them in turn. “So, no beautiful women in sight.”

She gave Aramis a tight-lipped smile, watching as his grin slide into a look of dismay.

“I…” he started and trailed off, looking at Porthos for help again. “That is _not_ what I meant…”

“Isn’t there usually four of you?” Delaney asked, standing on her tiptoes and trying to find the younger one—the one who had sat at the table with the aloof one at the bar, but she didn’t see him. Nervousness pricked at the back of her neck.

Porthos shrugged himself off the house and Delaney’s heart slipped out of beat for a moment, before starting again. He looked like he belonged in Miracles in a way the other two could never pull off; Delaney knew this was because he was raised here, like she was. She had heard of him when she was younger, but never met him—until that night at the bar a few weeks ago.

“We have a few questions for your friend, just questions,” he started, glancing back at the other Musketeer—Delaney could tell he was their leader. “Nothing more than questions.”

“Yes, well, like I said,” Delaney said, but she could feel her cheeks tinged red again. Porthos was staring right at her; his brown eyes imploring her, she shook her head and looked at Aramis instead. “No one is here. No one, but me.”

“Then,” the apathetic Musketeer said, pushing by Aramis and stepping onto her stoop, before peering down at her, “would you mind if we waited for her to arrive.”

It wasn’t a question. He had his hand on the door and was moving it open, daring her to stop him. Delaney swallowed, trying to keep the door from opening, but he was stronger than she was. He pushed the door open easily. She thought of the knife in her father’s—in _her_ room, but she didn’t want them going anywhere near it. And she had hoped Bernadette and Cosette had either escaped or hid very well as the Musketeer’s pushed their way into her home.

Porthos was the last to enter, he paused before stepping through the door.

“Have any cards?” he asked, a crooked smile on his lips, only tilting up on side. “We could play while we wait?”

Delaney blinked at him, she was so angry about the intrusion, she didn’t even get to revel in the handsomeness of him—his smile, the way he was looking at her, the fact that he wanted to play cards with her again.

“No, I’d rather get this over with as soon as possible,” she said dismissively, thinking about her friends in her bedroom, wondering which one of them these men were after. “So that all of you will leave.”

Porthos nodded a little, glancing into her house, his smile slipping into a slight frown, and then he nodded more firmly and headed in.

Delaney slammed the door closed behind him, and stalked after him into the living room. 

-

Cosette could her Aramis’ voice at the door. They _had_ to be stalking her—why else would she have seen them three times within two days, and why else would they show up in Miracles of all places? They must’ve known who she was, which was not ideal. Francis would be furious at her.

“Under the bed,” Cosette hissed at Bernadette, who had jumped off the bed at the sound of the men’s voices as well. Placing her hand on top of Bernadette’s head, Cosette shoved her down and under the bed, before she looked around it, making sure none of Bernadette’s skirts were showing. “Don’t come out unless someone sets fire to the place.”

She didn’t wait to hear Bernadette’s reply as she tiptoed towards the door. If they weren’t here for Cosette, they were certainly here for Bernadette.

Once she was at the bedroom door, she heard Delaney say, “Isn’t there usually four of you?”

Cosette clumsily pulled up the skirts of the dress that Delaney had let her borrow, which meant that it was far too long for her, and grabbed her knife, before slipping out the bedroom door and heading toward the back one. She crept as quietly as she could, trying not to trip on her too-long dress, and then stared at the back door, weighing which side of the door the rogue Musketeer would most likely be on, if he were back there at all. It would most likely be the left, because the door opened toward the right. And if she had been spying or kidnapping, whatever it was they were doing, she wouldn’t want to the door swinging open to get in her way. Taking a deep breath and hoping she wasn’t wrong, Cosette pushed the door open and grabbed toward the left, her hand catching leather as she spun out the door and pressed her blade to the throat of the youngest Musketeer.

D’Artagnan—the apologizer, the apple picker upper, and the apparently not desperate one.

They stared at each other a moment in slight shock. She was shocked that she was actually right about the door thing, and he seemed to be shocked that she had bathed, or at least that’s what Cosette thought. His dark eyes were bounced from her face to her hair to her dress and then back to her face again, and then he looked at her as though he were trying to place her. Cosette shifted a little uncomfortably—she hadn’t looked _that_ horrible before.

Still neither of them said anything. His hands were raised in innocence and her blade was a good inch away from his throat; her wrist resting on his collarbone, while her other hand still had ahold of his vest. Cosette couldn’t stand silence; it always made her nervous.

“You know, it’s rather impolite to be creeping through backyards and looking through windows,” Cosette said, tightening her grip on the leather. 

“You know,” he said, an eyebrow raised. “It’s equally as impolite to press a knife to a man’s throat.”

“Warranted actions can be impolite,” she said with a mocking smile.

“How do you know that my actions weren’t warranted?” he asked, matching her mocking smile with his own. Maybe she wasn’t as terrifying as she thought. She pressed the blade closer to his throat and tried to look unamused by his comment—though she thought she might be failing, since he did not look as though he were in anyway afraid for his life. Her face always betrayed her.

“Well, you’re friends were kind enough to use the front door,” Cosette said, nodding toward where she thought that the other Musketeer’s and Delaney were.

“We were,” a voice said from the doorway. A gun cocked close to her head, and when Cosette glanced to the side, she saw that Aramis was smiling pleasantly behind it. Aramis shook his head and tutted at d’Artagnan, whose grin had faded. “Can’t ever leave you alone, can we? Always getting us into trouble, this one.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and nodded toward Cosette with a look that read: _Would you please just get this thing off of me._

Cosette stared at the barrel of the gun, feeling quite sure that Aramis was about as likely to pull the trigger as she was to slit d’Artagnan’s throat—which meant not likely at all. D’Artagnan straightened slightly, his hand lowering toward his sword, Cosette glared at him and shoved her knife further toward his throat. His brown eyes widened and he raised his hands up further, glancing briefly toward Aramis, who seemed more content on watching rather than interfering.

“Lower your gun, and I’ll lower my knife,” she said to Aramis, who looked over at d’Artagnan and shrugged agreeably, before holstering his pistol.

“I must say,” Aramis said, leaning out the backdoor toward her, once she had lowered her knife from d’Artagnan’s throat and stabbed it into the wall next to him, which neither of the men gave much notice to. “You’re looking positively pirate-esque. Bathing suits you,” he looked at d’Artagnan, “Did you tell her that bathing suits her?”

“I didn’t think it was something that needed to be voiced,” d’Artagnan said as Aramis started to go back inside, and then stopped abruptly once he saw Delaney was standing in the door way her glare darting between him and d’Artagnan.

“No, that’s great, really,” Delaney said, nodding sarcastically. “ _Great general knowledge_. Men prefer women who bath. Who would’ve thought?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the wall, causing a large ripping noise. Cosette smirked, while staring at her knife, which was shoved into the house taking part of d’Artagnan’s shirt with it.

Aramis started laughing, while d’Artagnan looked down at his ripped shirt in confusion as Cosette leaned past him and pulled her knife from the wall, before Delaney grabbed her arm and started dragging her inside the house.

“I mean,” Cosette said, gripping the doorframe, so Delaney couldn’t fully pull her inside the house. “I would say that you might be in need of a new shirt, but does it really need to be voiced?”

D’Artagnan shot her a look of scorn, his lips tightening as he ignored Aramis’ snickering and examined his torn shirt.

“Are you done terrorizing him? We have bigger things to deal with,” Delaney hissed, yanking her from the doorframe and pulling her into the house.

Porthos was in the kitchen scrutinizing Delaney’s kitchen cabinets quite intensely, like he would rather be anywhere other than where he was now, while another Musketeer stood next to Delaney’s bedroom door, a hand brushing it as he started to peer in. Cosette had forgotten his name, but she remembered him from the bar. He had come in alone, before the rest of them.

“Look who just arrived,” Delaney said with a faux cheerful tone, looking at Porthos, not seeming to notice the man, who was peering into her room. Cosette started to say something when Aramis entered the house, still chuckling at d’Artagnan’s tattered shirt, which had ripped from the bottom almost all the way to the arm, as he shut the backdoor behind them. 

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos boomed, turning away from the cabinets and eyeing the younger man’s shirt, sharing a smile with Aramis. “There are women present, show some decency and put a proper shirt on.”

The younger Musketeer gave him a thoroughly unamused looking, which picking at the ends of his shirt pathetically.

“You know,” Aramis said, leaning toward Cosette conspiringly, but speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “He is the most ungentlemanly out of all of us—never wears any clothes…”

“He’s always saying the rudest things,” Porthos continued.

“He goes around yelling at people all the time.”

“And I heard he stabbed a man to death once, for no reason at all, just that he felt like it,” Porthos said, nudging d’Artagnan, who had come over near him, trying to figure out a way to tie his shirt together, so it wasn’t flapping open and exposing his whole torso. He seemed to be used to the mocking, and was ignoring the other two. 

“Just that he felt like it,” Aramis echoed, tutting and shaking his head at d’Artagnan again, who had given up on his shirt and was now leaning against the kitchen counter, while rubbing his lip with his thumb and shaking his head in slightly in annoyance. 

Cosette grinned over at Delaney, who was still holding onto her arm, but looked as though she were struggling not to smile.

“Ask your questions and get out,” Delaney said, but her tone had no bite to it. Her expression had softened as she looked at Porthos, who was smiling back at her.

Cosette yanked her arm from her friend’s grip and looked at her, bewildered.

“What questions?” Cosette asked, warily. “I’m not answering any of _their_ questions.”  
“I didn’t say you had to, I just said for them to ask—” Delaney stopped talking abruptly, looking at the door to her room. She paled and her jaw clenched so hard a vein on her neck popped out. Cosette didn’t think that was a good sign.

“Is he in there?” Delaney asked, taking a step toward her room and looking back at Porthos—no softness left. “Athos? Did he go into my room?”

Porthos crossed the room quicker than Cosette would’ve thought he could. 

“Delaney,” he started, before faltering at the look on her face. “Mademoiselle, we—” 

“What the hell do you want?” Delaney snapped, her cheeks reddening again—Cosette couldn’t tell if it was because Porthos was only inches away from her, or because she was mad.

She thought probably both.

Porthos looked at d’Artagnan for help, who rolled his eyes. 

“Believe it, or not, we’re just trying to help,” d’Artagnan muttered. Cosette spun to look at him, he was still rubbing his bottom lip.

“Really? And how exactly are you trying to help? Forcing your way into houses, creeping through yards, breaking into bedrooms,” Cosette snapped. 

D’Artagnan just rolled his eyes.

“Ladies,” Aramis said from the couch. Cosette hadn’t even noticed that he had crossed the room and sat down. “We just wanted to know a little bit more about your families,” he looked at Cosette when he said this, “Like, how’s your brother?”

“I don’t have a brother,” Cosette snapped, fear rising in her throat, but also feeling a touch of relief. If they were here to talk about Francis, then they weren’t here for Bernadette. “The only family I have is my husband.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan said nodding, his voice soaking in sarcasm. “You’re _husband._ ”  
“Yes, she’s married,” Delaney said, voice filled with venom. “So sorry to break all of your hearts, now if you could _please_ leave my house. _Now._ ” 

“No,” Porthos said, warily eyeing Delaney lest she tried to move around him toward her room. “You have a brother, I remember him—Francis… Francis… what’s your last name?”

Cosette felt her own cheeks redden and she struggled to swallow.

“I do _not_ have a brother,” she said, but her voice was too high and strangled. The men were exchanging knowing looks—d’Artagnan had stopped rubbing his lip and was now just peering at her, arms crossed over his chest.

“So, you don’t know a Francis—” Aramis started, sounding unconvinced, but d’Artagnan cut him off.

“She said she doesn’t have a brother,” he said with a cutting looking, which made Aramis’ eyebrows raise in surprise, but then he just merely shrugged and leaned back onto the couch again.

Cosette saw that Delaney was about to lose it—her face was red, her eyes were starting to bulge a bit—when the last Musketeer, Athos, stepped out of Delaney’s room. He eyed Cosette critically for a moment, before looking at each one of them men in turn, pausing longer on d’Artagnan than the others—his blue eyes staring at the tear in his shirt.

“Let’s go,” he said, turning on his heal and starting toward the door.

“Athos—” Aramis started, standing from the couch.

“Now,” Athos said, opening the front door and walking out of it.

Cosette looked around, seeing that everyone in the room was looking at each other mildly confused.

“Thank you for having us,” Aramis said, gathering himself the quickest. He grinned at Delaney and bowed slightly, before raising his eyebrows at d’Artagnan, who looked as though he were going to leave the house without saying anything.

“I had a delightful time, _really_ ,” d’Artagnan said dryly, tucking his torn shirt into his pants as he walked toward the door. “You’re both quite charming.”

“I…” Porthos started, hesitating at the look on Delaney’s face, and he started toward the door, smiling widening as he once he reached it, and he turned around. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Once the door shut, Cosette and Delaney exchanged quick looks, before hurrying into the bedroom and dropping to the floor. Under the bed, Bernadette looked over at them, her blue eyes were wide and when she saw it was them, she started to crawl out from underneath the bed.

“Well,” Bernadette said, brushing off her dress and looking at both of them. “That was odd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone who is reading this--first of all, thank you! Second of all, if there is any confusion, or you have any constructive criticism please let me know! Thanks again for reading!


	5. Le Pacte

“Well,” Bernadette said, dusting herself off and blinking at both Cosette and Delaney. Her normally perfect hair was frazzled, and Cosette hadn’t realized it before, but for the first time she felt that she was really seeing Bernadette again. Seeing the girl who had jumped in mud puddles with bare feet, who was always the last to come in from the rain, and who used to have callouses on her fingers from shooting arrows day after day until she was better with a bow then any of the boys. There was a part of Cosette that never wanted Bernadette to fix the long piece of hair that had tugged free from her elaborate braid, or smooth her slightly frizzy hair. “That was odd.”

Delaney stepped forward and tucked that piece of hair behind their friend’s ear, before her hands began scouring Bernadette for injury—they were on her face, her shoulders, her hands, while Delaney asked, “What happened? Did he see you? Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”

Her voice was higher than normal, and her face pale with fear.

Bernadette nodded, then shook her head once, twice. She was still blinking, a little blankly, Cosette thought, like she wasn’t exactly there with them—not that that was particularly unusual. Bernadette was always getting lost in her own thoughts, and would jump into conversations at random with bits of information that had nothing to do with they were discussing.

Delaney just stared at her with her fingers digging into Bernadette’s shoulders as though she was literally contemplating shaking her.

“What is that even supposed to mean,” she asked, hardness seeping into the voice.

“It means,” Cosette sighed, jumping backwards onto the bed and looking up at the ceiling. There was a crack in it. She wondered if bugs got in through it. “Yes he saw her, no he didn’t touch her, and no he didn’t hurt her, right Birds?”

Cosette glanced at Bernadette briefly enough to see her nod again and that her eyebrows were slightly knitted in thought, before she went back to staring at the ceiling.

The Musketeers had wanted to know about Francis. She would have to return to the ship sooner than planned. There was no way that Jean would allow them to stay now, or even possibly come back. Cosette’s heart hitched, and for a second she forgot to breathe. What if they never returned to Paris? What if this were the last time she would see Delaney and Bernadette? 

“I’m going to have to move,” Delaney groaned, flopping face first onto the bed next to Cosette. She grabbed a pillow and shoved it into her face, before screaming into it.

Cosette understood the theatrics, and without looking, she felt around the bed until she found Delaney, and then patted her shoulder sympathetically. She couldn’t imagine what she would do if Musketeers had ever found her home in Miracles.

Probably more than scream in a pillow.

“I bet it’s all around now,” Delaney muttered, though Cosette could barely make out what she was saying with her face pressed into the pillow. “I bet everyone’s talking about how Musketeer’s showed up at the Benoît house. No one will ever do business with me again.”

“I bet no one even noticed,” Cosette said, though she could hear the lie—she was never good at lying, especially when it mattered. “And you know, I’ve never been more unattracted to a group of men in my life, and I share a boat with over twenty men, who only bathe every few days.”

Bernadette, who was perched on the side of the bed in between their legs, threw her a curious look.

“Shut up,” Delaney said, and Cosette looked over just in time to see the pillow before it smacked her in the face. “They’re handsome, and you know it. They are stupidly handsome, and I hate them.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t _handsome_ ,” Cosette groaned, shoving the pillow off her face and rolling her eyes. “I said I wasn’t _attracted_ to them. They think they are so brave and manly—breaking into a woman’s house and asking questions, but they’re just a bunch of bell swaggers. ”

“That man in here,” Bernadette said, she was looking around the room as though he were going to appear at any moment. “He…” she trailed off, her brow furrowing further.

Cosette and Delaney stared at her for a second to see if she would continue, but she didn’t.  
“I can’t live here anymore,” Delaney said, turning back toward Cosette, but peeking at Bernadette. “Where am I going to _live_?”

“I can ask my mum if we can stay with her?” Cosette said with a bright mocking grin, while Delaney sneered.

“This isn’t a joke, Cosette,” she muttered, slamming her face back into her pillow, before saying something else that was too muffled for Cosette to make out.

“What if he…” Bernadette said softly and swallowed hard. “There was a man in here, right?”

Delaney muttered something else into the pillow Cosette couldn’t comprehend, but Bernadette nodded like she had understood it.

“Maybe it’s because I know that they would arrest us if given the chance,” Cosette pondered, staring up at the ceiling. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of women say that there’s something sexy about a uniform, but, honestly, their uniforms make me want to vomit. _Oh, look at me in my stupid blue cape with this absurd crest on my arm and silly hat! It’s got feathers_!”

Cosette made a vomiting noise for emphasis.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Delaney groaned, and lifted her head, hitting Cosette with the pillow repeatedly. “Shut up. They weren’t even in uniforms, and they were still sexy. Just stop talking. Just stop. You love the young one, you _love_ him.”

“He just stared. He didn’t _say_ anything,” Bernadette said, looking at both of them, before looking out the window in thought. “That’s _odd_ , right?”

Cosette and Delaney stared at her a moment, and then seeing as she was preoccupied in thought again, turned back toward each other.

“I do not love him,” Cosette scoffed. “Did you see his pants? He wears the stupidest pants. Also, he’s rude. The second time we met, he said only someone desperate would walk me anywhere. And I caught him creeping around your yard, peering into your windows. _Into your windows._ Well, I’m assuming that’s what he was doing. Anyways, if _anyone’s_ in love it’s you.”

“His pants?” Delaney said, her face scrunched up in confusion.

“Yes, they are all saggy and strange,” Cosette muttered, waving a hand around toward the door to the bedroom as though he was still out there and the gesture would help illustrate her point in anyway.

“Fine, you love the Spanish one then,” Delaney said, shaking her head at Cosette’s reasoning. “You make him laugh and he makes you laugh, he’s handsome and you’re beautiful with your face and your hair and such—”

“…face and hair?” Cosette muttered, and Delaney ignored her.

“—and you’re in love. Stop pretending that you’re above the wiles of handsome men.”

“Ugh. Aramis?” Cosette said with a sour expression, crossing her arms over her chest. Bernadette’s head perked up at the sound of his name, which made Cosette feel the tiniest bit guilty when she said, “I’ll bet that one’s got diseases.”

Bernadette bit her lip—probably trying to stop herself from defending Aramis’ honor.

“And I’m not above the wiles of handsome men. I’m above the wiles of handsome Musketeer’s, and you should be too, because at the end of the day, the Musketeer will arrest the pirate and chop her head off—no matter how beautiful the face and the hair,” Cosette said firmly. “Star-crossed lovers are great in stories, but in reality…”

“Well, that is a bleak outlook,” Bernadette said, staring at her hands which were folded in her lap.

Cosette fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Alright, so a pirate, a thief, and a fugitive walk into a bar—”

“Cosette, we get it,” Delaney said, looking pointedly at Bernadette and then back at Cosette, which meant: _Shut the Hell up._

Everyone was silent. Delaney had turned away from Cosette and was staring at her bedroom door, lost in thought. Bernadette’s blue eyes wide with fear as she absentmindedly toyed with the piece of hair that had fallen out of her braid, also running around in the labyrinth of her own mind. 

Cosette sighed, but no one acknowledged her. What if this were the last time she saw her friends? What if this is how they always remembered her—the girl who didn’t think love could conquer all. Which wasn’t true exactly. She believed in her love for them, for Francis, for Jean—but love for a Musketeer? Love for a man who put the King above anyone else? Who pointed pistols at everyone she loved, who wanted and believed in the death of her brother, who barged into homes and wore a stupid blue cape? No. She didn’t believe in that love.

“I’m just being cranky,” Cosette said, sitting up and smiling at Bernadette. “Anything is possible. Anything at all.”

And it almost sounded like the truth.

-

D’Artagnan frowned at his shirt, which, even tucked into his pants, kept coming untucked and exposing his whole side. He muttered curses under his breath at the pirate woman, while they waited for Porthos to come out of the yelling one’s house. When he remembered the triumphant smile she wore at the sight of his shirt, he cursed again. _Pirates._

Aramis was smirking at him and drumming his fingers over his pistol.

“What?” d’Artagnan snapped, shoving his shirt back into his pants.

“Got pirate fever?” he asked, winking.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he said, leaning against the building adjacent from the yelling one’s house. “I love women who accost me and ruin my clothes. I’m planning my proposal as we speak.”

“Ah,” Aramis said, shaking his head and laughing. “To be young and in love.”

“I just want to see her brother hang, so we won’t have to deal with her again,” d’Artagnan muttered, kicking a rock with his foot. He immediately regretted his words—remembering the look on her face when Aramis had pestered her about her brother, but he did not take them back. 

D’Artagnan shook the thoughts from his head.

“You break into a woman’s house looking like that, and then complain about the company?” Porthos said, finally emerging from the house and joining them. He and Aramis shared a grin. They were always acting like the world was their own private joke. “You need to work on your manners.”

Athos, who had said nothing since they left, began to lead the away from the house and out of Miracles.

“You know what strikes me as odd?” Aramis said, glancing around at all of them. “Leaving a house without getting any of the information that you came to get.”

“Huh,” Porthos said, acting as though the thought had just struck him as well. “You know what else seems a bit odd?”

“Forcing your way into a woman’s house?”

“And into her bedroom?”

“Without any explanation at all?”

“And then abruptly leaving, _also_ without any explanation?”

“Getting your shirt ruined for seemingly no reason at all,” d’Artagnan muttered.

Aramis and Porthos smirked over at him, but Athos ignored them all.

“How many ways are there to get to The Port from here?” Athos asked, looking down the alleyway.

“Two,” Porthos said, pointing down either ends of the alley.

“Right,” Athos nodded. “d’Artagnan and I will take the right, you two take the left. Once the pirate woman leaves the house, have one of you follow her if she goes your way, while the remaining comes to get us and we’ll all meet up at The Port—where she will most likely end up.”

“It could take hours for her to leave the house,” Aramis said, looking bored already.

“Days even,” Porthos muttered.

“And won’t it look weird if we’re just loitering about?” d’Artagnan asked, eyebrow raised as he tucked in his shirt _again._

“Now that she knows that we know about her brother,” Athos said, giving Aramis a pointed looked. “It’s only a matter of time before someone contacts her, or she contacts someone.”

He didn’t say anything more, but turned on his heel and headed toward the right. D’Artagnan exhaled through his nose and looked back at the small, sort of lopsided house that Aramis and Porthos were passing by. He hoped that the pirate would choose to take the left route, before he started after Athos.

-

Cosette was right. Anything was possible. Bernadette knew that from experience. She had been the youngest and fifth daughter of a cobbler and lived just above the poverty line. She had been raised teetering in between beggars and thieves, and the lower middle class, but she rose so far she managed to be secure a place as a lady-in-waiting—one that the King wanted to marry, at that. When she was younger she could have settled for the butcher’s son, Jacques Boucher, who had always pined for her and thought she did not know he was sneaking into one of her dearest friend’s rooms at night… but she hadn’t. Because Bernadette did not settle. Which is why she had run away from the castle. Because anything was possible.

Including not becoming Queen if she did not want to.

“Do you think he left to go get someone to arrest me?” Bernadette asked softly. For some reason she thought that if she asked the question loudly, then it would inevitably come true. It was silly, she knew that, but still…

“Who?” Cosette asked.

They had been sitting, thinking quietly to themselves for some time. Bernadette thought that Delaney might be sleeping—her eyes were closed and she had an arm thrown over her face, and Cosette had somehow procured a knife and was slashing at invisible enemies launching at her from the ceiling. Bernadette saw a scar running from Cosette’s eyebrow down toward her ear, and wondered if she got it by doing exactly what she was doing now, playing with a knife, and dropping it on herself. She wanted to tell her to stop, but held her tongue.

“The staring guy,” Bernadette said, her voice slightly strangled.

She couldn’t really remember his face. She only got a glimpse of it. She had seen his boots as he wandered around Delaney’s room, and then he got down on his hands and knees and started to look under the bed—and Bernadette squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the inevitable scream she would let out when he pulled her out by her hair. But no hand grabbed her hair, in fact, he didn’t touch her at all. She opened one eye a tiny bit in time to make eye contact for a second—his eyes were a cold, pale blue, before he stood and left the room entirely.

“Who?” Cosette said again, sitting up and twirling the knife in her hands. Bernadette watched it uneasily, and opened her mouth to explain, but Cosette cut her off. “Oh, Rusty Guts? Amos…? Wait, that’s not right. Apathy?”

“Athos,” Delaney said, causing both the other girls’ to start. “His name is Athos.”

“Right,” Cosette nodded. “You think Apathy is calling the guards on you?”

Delaney let out a noise that sounded like half a groan and half a snarl as shoved Cosette off the bed with her foot. Bernadette let out a tiny, fearful scream, which startled Delaney so badly she sat up and looked around wildly. Bernadette dove toward the side of the bed, where Cosette had fallen off and looked over it—afraid that Cosette could’ve accidentally impaled herself.

But Cosette was rubbing her head with her knife free hand, and looking at Delaney, who had joined Bernadette leaning over the side of the bed, with a revenge filled gleam in her eye. 

“You _never_ listen,” Delaney muttered, and flopped back down onto the bed as Cosette stood, climbed back onto it, and opened her mouth to probably say something rude, when Delaney sat up and looked at each of them in turn. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” Bernadette asked, looking at Delaney’s hands for whatever she claimed to have had.

“We’ll make a pact, and hold each other accountable,” Delaney said, nodding to herself reassuringly and running a hand through her hair. “Things are always easier if you are being held accountable to other people.”

“I’m not taking another blood oath,” Cosette said, shaking her head sagely. “Those do _not_ turn out well.”

Delaney blinked at her, and started to ask what exactly she was talking about, but only shook her head, like she decided she really didn’t want to know. But Bernadette did, a little.

She was about to ask when Delaney started to talk again.

“No one wants your blood, Cosette,” she muttered. Bernadette thought that she might be trying really hard not to kick Cosette off the bed again. “And is that my knife?”

“This?” Cosette asked, grinning as she balanced the point of the knife on the pad of her finger. “I found it in your nightstand, while the two of you were daydreaming. Mine’s on the kitchen table, which is _much_ too far away.”

Delaney rolled her eyes, and snatched the knife away, before shoving it into her nightstand drawer. Bernadette thought that Cosette might pout about it—like she had when she was younger, but her friend merely shrugged and placed her hands behind her head.

“So, if we’re not taking a blood oath, what sort of pact are we talking here?” Cosette asked, bouncing her legs off the side of the bed.

Bernadette laid down next to her, close to touching but not quite. It reminded her of the castle—when all the ladies would gather in bed, doing each other’s hair and gossiping. It also reminded her of when the three of them were young and would sneak into each other’s beds at night— and how what they listened to depended on whose house they were in. At Bernadette’s they’d listen to the giggling of her older sisters, who spoke of boys and kissing and marriage and things that they didn’t quite know about yet; at Delaney’s sometimes it would be a hushed, exciting conversation between her father and a stranger—someone new every time, and they would make up stories about why he was there, but mostly it was her father’s snores; and Cosette’s they’d listen to her mum—whether it was her loud sobbing, her headboard banging into the wall along with loud moans, or her screaming. If it were especially bad, Francis would come in, surprised to see them all in her bed, and tell them a hushed story about grand adventures.

Her cheeks burned when she thought about Francis—she used to have the biggest crush on him when she was younger, but she never told Cosette, or Delaney. She wondered if they knew. She wondered what he was like now. Besides gay, that is. She hoped he was happy.

“It’ll be a no falling love with any sort of soldiers’ pact,” Delaney said. “No Red Guards, no Musketeers.”

“I don’t need a pact for that,” Cosette said, and Bernadette saw Delaney shoot her a sharp look.

“Oh, right,” Delaney said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I forgot, you’re the one with all the self-restraint.”

“That,” Cosette said, pointing at her. “Didn’t sound very genuine.”

“Because it wasn’t,” Delaney snapped, clapping her hands to her face and pulling the skin down taunt. “You have no self-restraint! You practically ripped off a man’s shirt today!”

“You did what?” Bernadette said, sitting up. Aramis’ smile flashed briefly in her mind, before she shook her head. Now was not the time for _that._ “Who? Whose shirt did you rip off, and why are we just now talking about this?”

Cosette rolled her eyes.

“It was the baby’s shirt,” Delaney muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “The one with no facial hair.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Bernadette said, smiling. “He’s cute!”

“First of all, he’s older than us, probably,” Cosette said, glaring at Delaney. “And secondly, you make it sound like it was out of desire. It wasn’t. It was pay back for him being sassy and rude. Also, sex isn’t love, I don’t know how many times I have to tell—”

“Fine,” Delaney said, cutting her off. “We’ll make a no getting involved with any sort of soldiers’ pact, then. It will only lead to trouble.”

“You can’t help who you fall in love with, Delaney,” Bernadette said, shaking her head.  
Cosette snorted, causing both Bernadette and Delaney to look at her. She was fiddling with her hair, and glanced between them.

“What?” she said, brow furrowed.

Neither of them said anything—growing up with Cosette had taught them all they needed to know about her views on love, which were that she thought very little of it.

“So, are we making a pact and holding each other responsible, or what?” Delaney said, glancing back and forth between them. Bernadette busied herself with a string on her dress, and she heard Cosette let out an enormous sigh as she sat up.

“Well, we all know that _I’m_ the responsible one, so if I don’t join in the two of you will be kissing Musketeers in dark corners before the sun sets,” Cosette said, grinning at Delaney—who bit back a smile and shook her head.

“I…” Bernadette started, not looking at either one of them. “I cannot promise that.”

The other two girls were silent for a beat—the heavy silence made Bernadette wince. It wasn’t that she was in love with Aramis, or any of the other’s, she knew that—but she liked that the possibility was still there. Seeing as anything was possible.

“Who are you in love with, Aramis?” The way Cosette said it, made it sound ridiculous. Bernadette’s cheeks began to redden as she focused more intensely on the string.

“ _No_ ,” she said quickly. “But I could. Maybe. One day. Maybe not him, maybe someone else. But I don’t want to vow to never love someone.”

They were silent again. Bernadette knew they were exchanging looks.

“ _So_ ,” Cosette said, dramatically falling back onto the bed and drumming her fingers along her stomach. “A pirate, a thief, and a fugitive walk into a tavern…”

Bernadette winced again. A fugitive. Right. She had forgotten about that bit. She was a wanted woman. The minute she ran away from the castle she had ensured her freedom from marrying the King, but also locked herself in a prison of things she could not do—one of those things being falling in love with one of the King’s guards. She could not show her face among royalty ever again.

“Oh, right,” she said, hearing the crack in voice. “Alright. Okay.”

“Hands in!” Cosette said, raising her hand from where she lay on the bed. Delaney rolled her eyes, but put hers on top of Cosette’s, and Bernadette tentatively put hers in as well.

“Whatever we do,” Delaney said, a bit melodramatically, but it made Bernadette’s heart race a little, like she was _actually_ taking a blood oath. She reminded herself to ask Cosette about it later. “We will not fall in love with Musketeers, or any sort of soldiers.”

“Or, in your case,” Cosette grinned over at Delaney, “act on it.”

Bernadette watched as Delaney unfolded her legs and kicked Cosette off the bed again. The smaller girl yelped, and then scrambled up, so she was kneeling with her arms and head were on the side of the bed. She had the sternest look Bernadette was sure Cosette could muster and opened her mouth to presumably yell at Delaney, when a knock interrupted her.

Delaney let out a groan and covered her hands over her face as she sunk back into her pillows—Bernadette thought she sounded like she were about to cry.

“What is happening?” she said, into her hands. “Why is it you two are here for less than a day and suddenly everyone’s showing up at my house? _Why_?”

Cosette shrugged, and bounced off the bed.

“Would you like me to answer it?”

-

Cosette had opened the door and was fairly unsurprised to find Jean leaning against the doorway; however, she was surprised that he didn’t look angry, or even annoyed—if anything he looked a little tired.

“We need to talk,” he said, peering behind her. Cosette looked as well, seeing Bernadette and Delaney standing in the doorway of Delaney’s room. “Alone.”

So, they went to the backyard, which wasn’t exactly private, but Jean seemed to think it was alright. He wasn’t scowling at her, which was making her nervous. Jean always scowled at her, or gave her the _you’re a pain in my ass_ look. But he wasn’t doing either. He was clenching his jaw and rubbing the stumble along it. She thought he might be searching for something to say. Jean always knew what to say.

“I thought you weren’t going to follow me,” she said just to get the conversation going. Cosette bounced on her the balls of her feet, and wondered if Bernadette and Delaney were pressed against the door, trying to listen, like she would’ve been if the situation were reversed.

“I lied,” he said, but not harshly, almost gently.

Cosette was really nervous now. She could handle Jean mad—he was always mad, but she couldn’t handle Jean sympathetic, or pitying, or whatever this was.

“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked finally, his gray eyes pinning her in place.

Cosette felt her head cock to the side instinctively—she racked her brain for what he could possibly be talking about, but she had no idea. There were a lot of things she hadn’t done.

“Do what?” she asked slowly—she felt like she had only this morning, on the ship. She felt like he was leading her into a trap somehow—that Francis would pop-up and yell, “Ah ha! We should’ve never brought you along.” Cosette didn’t know why she felt that way, seeing as Francis never made her feel like she didn’t belong, but she had always had this persistent fear that one day he would wake up and realize that she wasn’t enough—that she wasn’t smart enough, good enough, skilled with a sword enough, _just enough_ —to be on the ship. And that he would leave her.

“Kill the kid,” Jean said, nodding toward the wall where she had had d’Artagnan pinned earlier that day.

Cosette blinked. That was not what she had been expecting. How had Jean even seen that? She looked around to see where he had been hiding, while Jean just waited—seeming to know that she wouldn’t figure it out.

“Because I had no reason to,” she said, her words coming out slow again. She replayed the event in her mind—her hand on his collarbone, her knife to his throat, the lack of fear in his eyes. She tried to imagine what would’ve happened if she pinned his throat to the wall—Aramis would’ve come out and shot her. And if she would’ve ran, they probably would’ve shot Delaney, or worse, pinned her to a wall by her throat in a place where Cosette would find her. That’s what Francis would’ve done.

“He was sneaking around your friend’s house, he could have been there to kidnap you, arrest you, or even Bernadette, isn’t that reason enough?” he asked and Cosette knew what he was doing—he was trying to give her an out, trying to find an explanation for Francis on why his sister wasn’t adding notches to her headboard of kills. Francis had always called her soft, but Cosette never saw any reason for senseless killing, and her brother could never understand that.

_It isn’t senseless_ , he would say, _it’s security._

“How do you know about Birdie—” she started, but Jean only shook his head—an indication for her not to change the subject. Cosette sighed. “If I killed him there were three more inside, who could’ve killed my friends for killing their friend. And I’m not willing to risk that. Besides, he didn’t… he’s just—”

Another look. One that said: _you’re an idiot._

“He’s a Musketeer,” Jean said, staring at her. “Do you think he’d hesitate to kill you?”  
“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?” she snapped. He was making her question her judgement. Cosette closed her eyes a moment—he hadn’t been a threat. _He hadn’t._ She hadn’t felt threatened, and that was saying something—seeing as her life was _constantly_ being threatened.

“What did they want?” he asked, rubbing his jaw again.

“They asked about Francis,” she said quietly, seeing the tension in his shoulders build. “They asked if he was my brother. I said I didn’t have one. I said I only had you.”

Jean ran a hand over his face wearily, before leaning down toward her. He placed a large hand on the side of the house and was so close that their faces were only inches apart. Cosette shrank back a little, and his expression softened a bit.

“Next time he comes near you, next time any of them come near you, you kill them, do you hear me? No hesitation, no restraint,” he said, but there was no bite to his voice. That’s how Cosette knew it wasn’t a request from Jean, but a demand from Francis. She gave a slight nod. “I mean it, Cosette,” he said, he looked worried. “Kill them all, if you have to.”

“Jean—” she started, but he jerked his head to cut her off.

“What has Francis always said to you?” he asked, taking a step back.

“Bite first, not back.”

Jean peered at her, and then nodded. It was times like this that Cosette still felt like Francis’ little sister instead of a woman in her mid-twenties. He turned and started toward the alley, before pausing and turning toward her again.

“Oh, and stay away from Jac,” he said, anger creeping into his expression. “Next time I see him so much as look at you, I’ll carve his eyes out of his skull.”

Cosette nodded, and bit her lip. She would’ve laughed, but she knew it wasn’t a joke.

-

Athos didn’t know the time exactly, only that d’Artagnan had fallen asleep a few hours earlier. He had spent the whole night, thinking about the woman under the bed—Bernadette von Altenburg, and how he had seen her around the castle. How she had this loud, abrupt laugh that almost sounded like a bird calling—and the first time he had heard her laugh it had surprised him so badly, he missed up a step going up the stairs and had almost fallen down the whole set of them. After that, he had started looking for her.

He didn’t know why exactly. They had never spoken, and he doubt she even knew who he was, but he started to learn things about her as the years went on—never intentionally, but she just always caught his attention for a reason he could not name. He just noticed her. 

Her favorite color was blue—not like the ocean or the sky, but like forget-me-nots: that pale powder blue. She always wore dresses of that color, or had little flowers in her hair. Her favorite spot was out in the gardens on a bench where she was surrounded by white roses. Athos saw her out there a lot, reading a book, or just humming to herself and thinking. She liked cookies and sweet white wine—he had never seen her refuse either. And she laughed that surprising laugh freely and often—always startling and delighting, whoever had caused it.

Sometimes he wondered if he would ever cause it.

He doubted it.

He had intended on turning her in—saying he didn’t know her to Treville was one thing, technically, he _didn’t_ know her. They had never exchanged even a hello.

But seeing her was an entirely different thing—even though he did go looking for her. He should have pulled her out from under the bed, but in the moment he found that couldn’t. He did know why he froze, but he did. He just stared at her scrunched up face and balled up fists, wondering if she thought just because she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. And he couldn’t do it.

She opened one eye, and he bolted.

It had been a mistake, one he would only make once. His unexplainable fondness for her would not interfere with his duty the next time he saw her. He would make sure of that.

Athos looked down at d’Artagnan who shifted in his sleep, his head lolling to the side and his shirt flapping open, and Athos rubbed his tired eyes wondering when the right time to wake him up, so he could sleep—when he saw her. The sun was just beginning to rise and her hair wasn’t in braids like the day before, but down and wild. It made her look impossibly young—and a flutter of doubt bloomed in his chest.

But he had no reason to doubt the blacksmith—he had said that she was Cosette Collins the sister of the pirate Captain Collins, that she travelled with the pirates, and that his brother, Jean, was one of them. 

Athos didn’t tell the others about his source. Treville had asked him not to.

And yet, Jacques Boucher could be a scorned lover. It was obvious that he had slept with the woman…

Athos had forgotten for a moment that he was supposed to be following her, lack of sleep had made him slow to react, and then she saw him.

He was standing leaning against a wall, and their eyes connected. He watched one of her eyebrows rise up, before she turned and quickly started down the almost empty street. Athos cursed, and shook d’Artagnan, who woke with a start, pulling out his pistol and blinking up at him.

“Follow the girl,” Athos muttered, hauling the younger man to his feet. “She already saw me. Be discreet.”

After d’Artagnan took off, Athos curse to himself again. _Be discreet_ , he had said. He shook his head and started toward where he knew Aramis and Porthos were, probably both sleeping. Be discreet, who did he think he was talking to? The youngest Musketeer was usually as discreet as a raging bull—not to mention the fact that he still seemed miffed about the whole ruined shirt situation.

Athos quickened his step—the last thing he needed was their only lead dead over a ruined shirt.

-

Delaney didn’t know something was wrong the moment she woke up—she had heard people say that before, that they had knew. Sometimes she wondered if she were missing something inside of her—the part that told her things were about to go to shit, or whether it was just running all the time, so she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Whatever it was, Delaney hadn’t known the moment she woke up.

She didn’t know as she listened to the soft breathing of Bernadette, appreciating the sound of someone else sleeping next to her. It had been such a long time since anyone else besides her had slept in the house. She didn’t know when she sat up and stretched, slipping her legs over the side of the bed and looking around the foreign room—not being used to the amount of space her father’s old bedroom gave her.

She didn’t know until she stepped out of the room into the kitchen and Cosette wasn’t there humming some tune at the table or over the stove. She knew when the door to her old bedroom was cracked, because Cosette never slept with the door open.

But it wasn’t a feeling deep down inside of her that told her something was wrong, but the fact that Cosette hadn’t said anything—not even a goodbye. Cosette, who never left a room without the final say, who was so loud Delaney could always find her in even the busiest of markets, Cosette who would wake her up in the mornings if she felt bored. She would have never left without saying something.

Delaney shoved her old bedroom door open—searching the room for any signs of struggle. The thought made her sick. What if those men had come to scope out her house, so they could take her? What if stole her away in the middle of the night, and Delaney hadn’t stopped them? Why had she let her sleep in a room alone?

She rushed back to her room and changed quickly—Bernadette didn’t even stir, which was for the better, frankly, seeing as Delaney couldn’t take bring her along and didn’t much feel like arguing. She shoved a knife up her sleeve and headed for the door.

When she swung it open, Hughes was there. He looked surprised to see her, even though it was her house. His mouth hung slightly open, and started scratching the back of his neck—in what Delaney might have called nervousness, if she hadn’t been so busy needing to leave.

“I—” she started, racking her brain for a nice way to put what she was trying to say, but couldn’t. “I cannot deal with you right now, I have bigger problems.”

Delaney shut her door and pushed by him, looking left, and then right. She hated trying to figure out what other people would’ve done. Sighing, she went right, hearing Hughes jogging to catch up to her.

“It seems your friends keep you pretty busy,” he mused, keeping up with her hurried pace easily. “Usually you have nothing to do.”

“Oh, thank you, Hughes, really,” she snarled, pushing past a man, who was standing right in the middle of the road, showing no signs of moving. “I love being told that I have no life at all. That’s great, really. So flattering. Please, continue to compliment me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I—”

Delaney stopped abruptly, and turned so quickly that Hughes almost ran into her and had to windmill his arms to stop in time.

“I. Do. Not. Have. Time,” she hissed, glaring up at him. “For this.” She gestured at him—so that that he would know he was the ‘this’ she was talking about.

“Is this about Jean?” he asked, his mouth quirking down into a frown.

Delaney let out a small aggravated scream and pulled at her hair, which caused quite a bit of people to turn and look at them, before she turned on her heel and stormed toward The Port, where she thought was a good place to start looking. If they wanted Cosette for Francis, they would start at The Port. Right?

Hughes still following after her.

“I can help, you know,” he said, unhelpfully. “Well, probably not with Jean, but if it’s something else.”

Delaney let out a short, annoyed huff.

“Cosette’s gone,” she muttered, sliding through a large group of people, hoping to ditch Hughes. And for a second, she thought that it worked, but then…

“Isn’t she always gone?” he asked, popping up suddenly on her right and crashing into her a little. Delaney steadied herself, and threw her best death glare at him. Hughes remained unfazed.

“She didn’t say goodbye,” Delaney said through gritted teeth. She really didn’t feel like explaining Cosette to Hughes. She thought it might be a little like explaining a bird to a dog. A dog would never understand a bird, or English. 

“ _And_?” Hughes said, dragging the word out in that annoying way he did.  
“And she always says goodbye, so I think they took her,” Delaney said, side-stepping around a child, so she didn’t knock it over—only to have Hughes plow into the kid and keep walking. Delaney’s fists clenched.

“Who?” Hughes asked, somehow grabbing an apple off a cart without anyone noticing.

Delaney thought about telling Hughes about the Musketeers, but then thought better of it. He hadn’t exactly reacted well to thinking she loved Jean, she imagined he would react much worse once he found out that Musketeers had trampled through her home, and maybe stole her friend.

“…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, right, the ghosts.” Hughes nodded knowingly.

“I told you that I believed in ghosts in confidence,” she hissed, glaring up at him. Once, she had told him she thought her father might be haunting her. _Once._

“Yes, well, that was your mistake, wasn’t it?” He grinned and took another bite of his apple.

“Hughes,” she said, stopping again. It took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t walking anymore, and he had to turn back. “I will talk to you tonight. I will meet you at _Le Dame Blanche_. We will have a drink. It will be grand. Alright?”

Hughes tilted his head from side to side as though he were actually contemplating the offer, before smiling brightly at her.

“Sounds good,” he said, starting to walk backwards, bumping into people, but not acknowledging them at all. “Wait,” he stopped, “are you sure you don’t need help? I’m pretty good at banishing ghosts, but honestly, I might just let them keep your friend. She’s a bit annoying.”

“You don’t say,” Delaney said dryly, turning around again and ignoring the “Bye, love,” he yelled at her back.

It took almost an hour for Delaney to get to The Port after she left Hughes—and by the time she got there, she was sweaty and the sun was steadily climbing in the sky. She looked around—her heart starting to sink, what if she had gotten it wrong? What if Cosette was somewhere else entirely? Alone and afraid—

A shot rang out, causing people to scream and birds to scattered. Delaney’s head twisted toward the noise so fast, she thought she might’ve pulled a muscle in her neck.

She heard a familiar voice.

“It’s fine,” Porthos said to some ladies, who were fearfully looking up at the ship where the gunshot came from. “Just Musketeer business—carry on.”

He did not look like he thought everything was fine. His usually easy smile was tight as he glanced up at the ship, looking as though he were prepared to board it.

Delaney shot toward him, shoving her way through the crowd, who did not move for her at all. When she reached him, he was starting toward the ship. Her hand acted with a mind of its own as she grabbed him by the vest and pulled him down so their faces were inches apart.

She hadn’t ever been this close to him, but he was even more handsome up close. His eyes were so dark, she thought they might be black, and his mouth was so close that if she wasn’t so angry, she might have had the urge to kiss him. Actually, no she wouldn’t. She had made a pact. 

“Where is she?” Delany hissed, gripping his vest tighter in her fist and about to slide the knife down her sleeve and into her palm. Porthos bit back a smile, his eyes raking over her face—she felt her cheeks redden slightly. And then she heard another familiar voice coming from the ship.

Delaney pushed Porthos a little ways back, and craned her neck to see on the ship.

“ _Off_ ,” d’Artagnan said at Aramis, who had started toward him. The younger Musketeer was walking quickly toward the ramp. “Get off the ship.”

Aramis looked behind him at Athos, who nodded and then they both started toward the ramp as well.

Delaney let go of Porthos entirely, and started toward them, but a hand clasped around her wrist. She glared back at Porthos, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at d’Artagnan, who made his way toward them.

“Let go of me,” Delaney snapped, pulling her wrist away from Porthos, who let go of it easily.

“What happened?” Porthos asked, but d’Artagnan walked straight past him and up to Delaney, who hadn’t realized that he was as tall as he was until he was looming above her.

“Your friend needs you,” he said, his expression one Delaney couldn’t place—she couldn’t read it at all, but she did a quick scan of him and saw no bullet wounds, no blood. She stood frozen, staring up at him; the sound of the gunshot echoing in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, well, sorry this took so long--let me know if there are any mistakes in the grammar department, or if you have constructive criticism! I hope you enjoy!


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